


Give Your Heart a Break

by KelseyO



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, F/F, Family, Family Drama, Friendship, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelseyO/pseuds/KelseyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Quinn wants is to be invisible; she kind of gets her wish, because Rachel sees right through her.  Post-3x01.  Revamp of Pink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so. This is basically me telling the story I originally wanted to tell when I started Pink, had I been equipped with Actual Writing Skills and a fantastic beta and a Plan. Now that I have those three very important things, here is (I hope) the bigger and better version. Same universe, same concept; just moar details and thought and logic. I'm going to work my way back through the entire fic and eventually end up where I left off, then continue from there.
> 
> HAPPY READING, MY FRIENDS.

“Give me your lunch money.”

The demand is bored, almost emotionless, and her voice is gravelly and weak from all of the smoking, but the freshman hands over a few crumpled dollar bills like she’s being held at gunpoint. Quinn smirks as she takes the cash and turns away; her work here is done.

She counts out their profit on the side of the sink, tuning out the other girls’ taunts for the most part, and her face remains completely impassive when she hears the flush and some weak gurgling noises. She’s proud of herself for not flinching anymore.

They release the girl and snicker as she flees the room and The Mack whips out a celebratory pack of cigarettes.

“How much we got?” she asks as they light up.

Quinn takes a long drag before answering. “We’re at eighteen bucks now.” The Skanks put her in charge of “finances,” since she’s good at math and they’re… well… not. She stuffs the wad of bills into her pocket and inhales deeply again, stifling a grimace as the smoke fills her insides with a dull burn.

The bell rings and they put out their cigarettes in the sink before leaving the bathroom, the stench of fresh tobacco rolling over everyone they pass like a storm cloud, and Quinn loves the dirty looks they get. Honestly, the disgust is a welcome change to the judgment and pity she’s used to. It’s a relief, pressure off her back, because since she traded in the red-and-white spandex for ripped black t-shirts, got her nose pierced, and dyed her hair, nobody has been talking about her pregnancy or her failed relationships or how much of a loser she is for being in glee club. Now they gossip about this new look of hers, and how she only goes to half her classes, and how she smokes under the bleachers with the most feared group of girls at school.

She’s changed the conversation, and that’s all that matters.

They turn the corner and her smirk shifts to a glower; Finn is standing by Rachel’s locker, smiling his usual Good Guy smile as he waits for his girlfriend to arrive, and now she wants to hit something.

“Quinn, you ditching?” Sheila asks when they stop to write something vulgar on a locker.

She leans against the one next to it, her arms crossed as she rolls her eyes at Ronnie’s Sharpie artwork. They’re doing it out here in the middle of the hallway where Figgins could walk by at any moment… And come on, a curse word? As ferocious as Ronnie’s jagged block letters are, Quinn can’t help but think back to her one and only masterpiece, which she had the brains to draw in the privacy of the bathroom.

She recalls the finer details of her drawing and her breath catches in her throat when she looks up to see the real thing, as Rachel strides down the hall to greet Finn. They’re oblivious to her glare as they exchange a peck on the lips; Quinn clenches her jaw and her fingers curl into fists and her blood is boiling just like it does every time she sees them together.

Quinn drops her gaze to the faded red and white tile floor, biting her lip so hard she might be splitting it in half. But then she’s looking at Finn and Rachel again and her heart skips a beat when Rachel happens to meet her eyes. She immediately looks away and turns her back to Sheila. “Let’s get out of here,” she growls, looking anywhere but _there_ as they head down the hallway and through the double doors to the parking lot.

.

(A small part of her wonders if it will affect her voice. A _very_ small part.)

But it gives her something to do besides talk to the Skanks, which she rarely does. Their conversations are always about ketchup-y tampons and rigging water fountains and setting things on fire, and she couldn’t care less about any of it.

She cares that when she’s with them, nobody tries to talk to her. She cares that the Skanks are like camouflage, that they make her invisible to most of the student body, that her pink hair and nose ring and mismatched clothes let her drop off the grid.

She’s Quinn Fabray, and that means nothing anymore.

"You want some?” Ronnie asks, offering her the bottle of vodka they’re passing around.

Quinn keeps her eyes on the concrete wall a few yards away, examining the path that each crack weaves around the others. “I’m fine.”

The Mack grunts. “Y’know, for a bitch, you’re really fucking boring.”

She inhales on the cigarette as long as she can, then gently shoves off the railing she’s leaning against and walks toward The Mack until their faces are an inch apart. “Fuck you,” she breathes, the words leaving her mouth as wisps of smoke that almost hide The Mack’s smirk, and walks away from the group.

“Maybe later,” The Mack replies just as Quinn is about to disappear around the corner.

She clenches her jaw, puts out her cigarette on the hood of Principal Figgins’s car, and heads to the auditorium.

.

It’s been a week since Rachel talked to her under the bleachers, and she hasn’t tried anything since. Quinn’s not sure why she’s thinking about this right now; maybe not _thinking_ , just… acknowledging. It’s just a thought that’s in her head, along with how many classes she’s skipped since school began (sixteen), how her new combat boots give her blisters, and how her mom hasn’t been able to look her in the eye in months.

The piano bench is cold and hard as she takes a seat and begins to unlace her boots, keeping her eyes peeled for any movement in the auditorium, any sign that she isn’t alone. All she sees is still darkness, so she kicks her shoes off and flexes her ankles, feet, toes, wincing at a spot on her heel that the leather’s been rubbing against all day.

Quinn takes a deep breath in and out, savoring the absence of smoke in her lungs, and sets her fingers along the piano keys one by one. She checks, double checks, triple checks that she has the right chord, then begins to play; slowly and quietly, because this is for her and no one else. No one’s here to tell her she’s doing it wrong or to practice her technique or to work harder. There’s no goal to aim for, no Regionals or Sectionals or tournament or showcase, no audience.

No watching. No scrutinizing. No judging.

How do people even get enjoyment out of performing for others? Now that she’s quit, she doesn’t understand why she did it in the first place. Why would you invite others to tell you everything you’re doing wrong, to make _everything_ about your imperfections? Rachel’s an idiot for wanting to make a career out of it.

She clenches her jaw and starts to play louder, faster, because thinking about Rachel always leads to thinking about Rachel-and-Finn, which always leads to vague feelings of nausea in the pit of her stomach. She’s over him, and over him leaving her for Rachel (twice), but they’re not even _good_ for each other, for God’s sake. Their relationship turns them both into whiny, selfish infants, and it’s a pain in the ass to watch every day.

Not that she watches them. They’re just there, and she sees them, and that’s it.

Quinn is playing even harder now. How dare Rachel approach her, venture into Skank territory to tell her blatant lies about how much glee club needs her, how much she’s _missed_ , because she knows none of that’s true. Rachel might like to think they’re all family, but where was everyone when Quinn got pregnant, after she had Beth, during her meltdown in New York? Yeah, there was “Keep Holding On” and Santana deciding a haircut would solve everything… but no one was really _there_. There’s a difference between singing “Lean On Me” and actually being there to lean on.

She stumbles on a note and immediately her fingers freeze mid-stroke. Her breaths are coming out in audible huffs and every muscle in her body is tense, ready for something, though she’s not sure what.

After a long moment, Quinn deflates; she lets the air out of her lungs, lets her posture sag, lets her hands fall into her lap. Her eyes are burning but she refuses to let the tears come, because when you cry it means you’re sad or upset or scared, and she isn’t any of those things.

She stuffs her feet back into her boots and leaves the auditorium without looking back.

.

Quinn makes herself go to English, because if she skips three classes in a row they’ll call her mom, and she really doesn’t need that kind of attention.

(Plus, if she’s being honest, she actually likes the book they’re reading.)

She gets there early so she can sit wherever she wants, and she opts for a desk in the back by the windows. She takes out _The Metamorphosis_ , flips to a random page, and begins to read. The book isn’t new to her—she read it on her own a few years ago—but she thinks it might be one of those stories that changes a little each time. When she was a freshman, it was about a guy with awful luck who tried his best to stay positive and work with what he had. Now, it’s about someone with no control over their body who gets ostracized by their own family for not being normal.

Quinn may not be living life as a gigantic bug, but she can definitely relate.

“Hello, Quinn.”

Her eyes lift and she finds Rachel sitting a few yards away, smiling at Quinn over her shoulder.

Quinn cocks an eyebrow. “Hey,” she mutters flatly, then goes back to reading. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Rachel face the front of the classroom again, and she grits her teeth just a little. That’s it? _“Hello, Quinn”_? Rachel Berry, the girl who never shuts up during glee club, is satisfied with a three-word conversation? And why would she even say that to Quinn in the first place? Most of the student body is scared to even _look_ at her, yet Rachel just—

She shakes her head and brings her thoughts to a screeching halt, because this is the last thing she should be worrying about right now. Rachel can do whatever the hell she wants.

Like date Finn.

(She wishes Rachel was sitting further away.)

.

Quinn doesn’t follow her out of the room or down the hall when class ends; it just happens that they’re both going in the same direction. She needs to dump her stuff in her locker so she can meet the Skanks behind the bleachers, and it’s not her fault if Rachel just happens to be walking several paces in front of her the whole time.

She reaches her locker and twists the combination and yanks the door open, keeping her eyes straight ahead because it doesn’t matter where Rachel is or what she’s doing, so there’s no use in looking around to see.

“Hi!” she hears Rachel greet from somewhere behind her.

She turns around without thinking, just in time to see Rachel stand on her tip-toes to give Finn a kiss.

Quinn slams her door closed and storms away, her boots clunking heavily against the floor, and she feels like she can’t get away fast enough.

Even though she’s not “getting away” from anything, because it doesn’t matter what Rachel does, because Quinn doesn’t care.

.

She ends up on the bleachers instead, because she has a headache and she knows the cigarettes will only make it worse, and because she’s used up today’s quota of patience for dealing with things she doesn’t want to deal with.

She sneaks around the far side of the football field and takes a seat at the opposite end of the bleachers from the Skanks’ hangout spot—the lowest bench, because her boots are so goddamn loud and she doesn’t want them to hear her climbing up and down.

Quinn opens to where she left off in class, at the part when Gregor is insisting that he’ll be able to go to work tomorrow, and a soft laugh slips from her throat. The poor guy is in complete denial that his life has changed forever, that he’ll never be able to go back to the way things were, the way they’re _supposed_ to be. He has no idea that his parents won’t even be able to look at him; he has no idea that he’s completely alone in this.

“You didn’t tell us you started a book club.”

Her head snaps up at The Mack’s voice and she sees the Skanks coming toward her, lit cigarettes in hand, and she really wishes she had some Advil. Quinn stretches and sinks back into her seat as if she’s completely relaxed. “Didn’t think you guys would be interested.”

The Mack puts her hand on her chest. “That hurts, Quinnie. I totally wanna read about…” She reaches over and lifts the book up so she can read the title. “…A fuckin’ butterfly,” she finishes, unable to hold in her laughter.

Quinn takes a breath to correct her, but bites her tongue at the last second.

“Seriously,” Sheila says, “I don’t get why you waste your time with this crap. Come key teachers’ cars with us.”

She’s not sure what would be worse: saying she’s reading for class, or saying she’s reading for fun. “I… can’t,” she mumbles, closing her book. “I have to go.” When she stands up, The Mack is directly in front of her, so close that they’re practically nose-to-nose and she has nowhere to move.

“Do you think you’re better than us, Fabray?” Her voice is quiet, cold, and the tobacco on her breath makes Quinn want to gag; her head is pounding. “You’re not. You’d be _nothing_ without us. Understand?”

Quinn swallows but doesn’t break eye contact. “Yes.” The Mack’s gaze dips to her mouth as she says the word, and something in her chest clenches.

“Good.” The Mack brings up her hand and gives her two light smacks on the cheek. “Start acting like it.” She steps away and Sheila follows her in the direction of the parking lot, but Ronnie lingers just long enough to look Quinn in the eye for longer than she ever has before.

But then she’s gone too, and Quinn’s alone again.

She counts to sixty in her head three times before getting up and heading for the auditorium as fast as those godforsaken boots will carry her, but when she reaches the door, it’s locked.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she snaps, banging on the door once with her first, her eyes burning again.

There’s no one she can fucking count on at this school.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by ProfessorSpork, as always.

It's fourth period, and they've only earned ten bucks from terrorizing the underclassmen, and The Mack is pissed.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She puts out her cigarette on the underside of one of the bleachers above her and pulls out a new one from her pack, then glances at Quinn. "I thought we got ten just from that first kid."

Quinn arches an eyebrow. "No," she says slowly, like she's talking to a first grader, "We got  _a_  dollar from him. One."

"Gimme that," The Mack growls, grabbing the cash from Quinn and sorting through wrinkled bills herself. When she's done, she eyes Quinn carefully. "You're not holding out on us, are you? Because if I found out you were tucking shit away behind our backs, you'd be dead."

Quinn throws The Mack a glare. "You really think I would risk you kicking my ass just for some extra money? I just take what you give me and put it in my pocket."

"See, that's the thing," Sheila interrupts, "You just stand there.  _We're_  the ones who do all the work."

"That's bullshit," Quinn mutters, rolling her eyes and fiddling with her cigarette.

Ronnie takes a long drag from her own. "She's right, Quinn. All of us have gotten our hands dirty… but not you."

Quinn holds out her hands in exasperation. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'll tell you exactly what you can do," The Mack replies, her smile managing to be both pleasant and cold. "You can get off your fucking high horse, and actually act like a Skank. Anybody can put on different clothes," she continues, giving Quinn a once-over, and Quinn shivers. "But if you don't have the balls to  _be_ one of us? Then you're out." The corner of her lip twitches just slightly. "And so is everything else."

Quinn clenches her jaw a few times. "Fine," she says as calmly as she can, even though her insides are on fire because only five people know about  _everything else_  and she's counting on it staying that way.

That's why she ends up in the bathroom with them twenty minutes later, waiting for a defenseless classmate to show up so she can completely ruin their day. She's standing by the sink closest to the door while The Mack and Ronnie and Sheila hang back in the corner, awaiting her first "solo performance."

Watching, scrutinizing, judging.

The door opens and a short girl with red hair walks in, a huge smile on her face like she just aced a test or got asked on a date by the boy she likes. A smile that Quinn's about to literally flush down the toilet.

When she was Cheerio captain she did her fair share of ordering slushies and swirlies, but she never actually  _did_  them; she was rarely even around to see them happen. She could handle the looks of humiliation or defeat that told her what had been done, but she never dealt with anyone directly. She didn't need to, because she was respected, feared, on top.

Now she's just a whole lot of unimpressive nothing.

"Hey, sweetie," she says with a smirk, her voice low and scratchy.

The girl's face falls and her eyes widen as she calculates her chances of escape; she flinches when Quinn slings her arm around her shoulders and tries to squirm out of Quinn's grip as she leads her to the first empty stall.

"D'you really think putting up a fight is gonna make a difference?" Quinn murmurs into her ear.

She sniffs and a tear rolls down her cheek but she stops struggling, and Quinn stifles a sigh of relief at how easily this girl is accepting her fate.

Quinn lifts her arm and instead grabs the back of the girl's collar. "Kneel." She obeys, and Quinn leans over a little. "Hold your breath," she whispers, forcing all the emotion out of her voice, then pushes the girl's head down and flushes.

She turns and leaves the stall without waiting for the girl to put herself back together, walking up to the sink and pulling out her pack of cigarettes. Quinn tunes everything else out and instead busies herself with counting how many she has left; she has to stifle a flinch when The Mack is suddenly behind her, locking eyes with Quinn in the mirror.

"Nice work, kiddo," she says with a smirk, then holds out a small wad of cash. "Ain't that way better than just taking money?"

Quinn curves her lips into a matching expression. "I'd forgotten how much I missed that." She takes the bills and shoves them in her pocket with the rest of them before following the Skanks out of the bathroom.

Adrenalin is rushing through her veins, and she focuses on that instead of thinking about the vague sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She's never seen that girl before today, and she'll probably never see her again, so there's no reason to think about what she did to her, no reason to feel bad.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A few yards ahead a member of the chess club is trying desperately to talk his way out of a slushy attack and a few seconds later he's covered in bright green corn syrup. As they walk by she sticks out a finger and swipes it gently along his cheek, then brings it to her mouth and licks it off.

Lime.

The Mack is laughing and saying something about going to 7/11 after school, but Quinn's only half-listening. She's just locked eyes with Rachel, who's apparently been watching them this whole time, and she's giving Quinn this look of disappointment that makes the vague sick feeling in her stomach not so vague anymore.

Quinn drags her gaze away and glares at the floor instead.

 _Fuck_  Rachel.

.

Since the swirly in the bathroom she's helped the Skanks get three more rounds of lunch money, and this is the first day since school started that they haven't bitched at her about something. It's refreshing, someone being satisfied with her; it makes her feel invincible, because no matter who she pisses off with these things she's doing, TheMack and Sheila and Ronnie have her back.

Quinn holds on to that as she walks down the hall, because they're all smoking under the bleachers right now and there's no buffer between her and everyone else. She's not even sure why she's so anxious, though, because it's not like anyone tries to interact with her anyway.

Save one exception.

She rolls her eyes and turns the corner to go to her locker, and as she spins the combination, she hears a familiar voice.

"Come on, guys… please don't do this."

Quinn turns her head just enough to see Artie several yards away, surrounded by a group of jocks, one of whom has a slushy in hand. She looks away and instead stares hard at the back of her locker, holding the door in a white-knuckle grip as she tells herself over and over that it's not worth it, that there's no reason for her to do it, that nothing good can come of sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.

"Last time it took  _weeks_  for my mom and me to clean my chair. Can't you just give me a wedgie or throw me in the dumpster or something?"

One of the jocks laughs. "Does it look like we're here to bargain?" he asks in an awful attempt at a British accent.

Quinn rolls her eyes; impressions have definitely gone downhill at WMHS since Sam left. She slams her locker shut, quickly glances down the hall to make sure the Skanks aren't around, and heads toward Artie and the football players with as much composure as she can manage. "Y'know," she says, her voice low and teasing, "this can't be much fun when he can't run away."

The guy with the slushy glares at her, and she recognizes his bright blue eyes and freckles. This kid used to follow her around like a puppy during her Cheerio days; Eric, she thinks. "Fuck off, Fabray."

She shrugs. "I mean, I understand if you can't handle a more challenging target." Quinn holds his gaze as she says it; mostly to seem more intimidating than she feels, but also because there's no way she's looking at Artie.

She's so focused on keeping eye contact that she doesn't see his hand move, but then she's covered in ice cold, grape-flavored corn syrup, and she can't hold back the flinch or the small gasp that escapes her lips.

He comes closer until his face is inches from hers, and every muscle in her body tenses because Santana was always the only person in McKinley gear who dared to get into Quinn's personal space. "You're right. That was way more fun." He sneers before backing away and heading down the hall with his friends.

Quinn hasn't moved. Her fists are clenched at her sides and her shoulders are stiff and she never should've done this, never should've put herself in this stupid situation because now she's cold and wet and shaking and  _vulnerable_ , and none of those things are okay.

"What is your  _problem_?" Artie snaps from beside her.

Her eyes start to burn, because even when she realizes he's shouting at Eric and his friends and not at her, she can't help but wonder.

She wipes some of the slushy off her face and starts to look around for the nearest bathroom, but then she finds the last pair of eyes she wants to see right now.

Rachel is standing outside the door to their English class, staring at her with a horrified expression on her face, and Quinn meets her gaze for a single beat before taking off in the opposite direction.

She walks and walks and walks, as fast as she can without running, because when you run it means you're scared or upset or about to cry, and she isn't any of those things.

(Plus, these boots are a fucking  _joke_.)

The bathroom in the science wing has constant plumbing problems and is usually deserted, which is exactly what she's counting on when she bursts through the door. Quinn all but punches each stall door open to make sure she's alone, and when she finally turns around and sees her reflection in one of the mirrors, she wants to punch that, too.

Her hair is damp, her clothes are soaked, and makeup and purple slushy running down her face; she looks about as menacing as a five-year-old who's playing dress-up in her mother's closet. She rips a few paper towels from the dispenser and tries to dry herself off, but everything's sticky and it doesn't help that her hands are trembling.

She crumples the paper towels into tiny balls and grips either side of the porcelain, her arms rigid and knuckles white as she takes deep breaths in and out, because she can feel the tears behind her eyes but she can't, she  _won't_ , let them out. She just needs to be alone for a bit and get herself under control again, go back to being a true Skank and not caring about anyone or anything, because caring only ever makes things worse.

The door opens and closes and her breath catches in her throat at the sudden intrusion. "Get out," she growls without turning around.

"Quinn?"

Rachel's soft voice makes her grimace, and she squeezes her eyes closed. "Get out," she repeats.

She hears a quiet, hesitant step forward. "Are you all right?"

"I'm  _fine_ ," Quinn mutters through gritted teeth. "Leave me alone."

Rachel doesn't move. "Let me help you with that."

Quinn opens her eyes and finds Rachel's in the mirror. "I've got it, okay?" she snaps.

"It helps if you wet the paper towel first," Rachel offers, pulling some from the dispenser and running them under the faucet. She holds them out to Quinn when she's done, not giving up even when Quinn doesn't accept them.

She really wants to, though, because she's shivering and she feels disgusting, so after clenching her jaw a few times she finally pulls them from Rachel's hand. Quinn wipes off her face and neck and arms as quickly as she can, avoiding Rachel's eyes again.

"I saw what you did for Artie," Rachel says, wetting more paper towels for her. "Quinn, that was a really brave thing to—"

"No. It was stupid."

Rachel's eyebrows pull together slightly. "How can you say that? I—"

"You," she interrupts, "don't know anything."

"So explain it to me."

The response is so calm, so simple, and for a moment Quinn just blinks at her. "Fuck you," she finally whispers before turning away and leaving the bathroom without another word.

It's only when the door closes behind her that a single tear slides down her cheek. She wipes it away.

.

Quinn skips the rest of her classes to go home and shower. She dumps her slushied clothes in the trash (she figures if her mom found them in the laundry, she'd toss them anyways) and gets dressed again, then heads to the gas station a few minutes away.

The Skanks are already halfway through a round of cigarettes when Quinn shows up, and The Mack arches an eyebrow at her.

"Where've you been?"

Quinn shrugs and takes out her own pack. "Home. Some bitch spilled her drink on me." Not entirely untrue.

The Mack gives her another careful onceover and Quinn prays that they haven't heard about the slushy (not that anyone up there is listening); finally, The Mack relaxes. "Whatever. You want a drink?" Her tone is challenging as she holds up a bottle in a paper bag.

"What is it?"

"What's it matter?"

Quinn takes a long drag on her cigarette and then holds out her free hand. The Mack smirks and has Ronnie pass the bottle to Quinn, who knocks back a swig before she can think about it anymore. It's vodka and it burns her throat, but she does her best to suppress a grimace. "Thanks," she says, gesturing for one of them to take it back, but The Mack just holds up her hand.

"Keep it. Take the edge off."

Quinn glances down at the bottle, thinking about everyone she made miserable today, about being covered in slushy, about Rachel thinking she fucking knows anything, and takes another gulp. The Mack gives her an approving smirk and Quinn drinks again, because why shouldn't she?

Sheila, Ronnie, and The Mack keep smoking and Quinn keeps drinking, and when the ground starts to sway below her she leans against the side of the building and slides down until she's sitting on the pavement. Quinn's not sure why she thought drinking was such a bad idea, or why she protected Artie today, or why Rachel seems determined to "fix" her or whatever. She always thought Rachel's obsessive perfectionism was exclusive to her own talents, but maybe she's like Quinn's parents. Maybe she can't tolerate the imperfections of the people around her, either. Maybe she's just another person who knows Quinn can't do anything right.

Quinn laughs a little, because she's always fucking thinking about Rachel.

"Finn, I  _told_  you the gas tank is on the right side."

She freezes with the bottle at her lips. "Are you kidding me?" she mumbles to herself, leaning over so she can see around the corner of the building, and sure enough she sees Rachel and Finn standing next to his black pickup truck. Rachel looks annoyed and Finn just looks confused, and Quinn starts laughing again because they're seriously the stupidest couple she's ever seen in her life.

"Quinn?"

She looks up, and of course, Rachel is standing in front of her. "Rachel," she replies before drinking again.

Rachel doesn't look nearly as confident as she did in the bathroom as she eyes the covered bottle in Quinn's hand. "Is that alcohol?"

Quinn smiles. "Yep."

"It's against the law to purchase alcohol as a minor," she says weakly, like she knows Quinn doesn't give one single shit about what's against the law.

"It's a good thing The Mack stole it from her parents, then," Quinn slurs.

"Quinn, you bragging about me again?" The Mack asks with a smirk, she and the rest of the Skanks suddenly reappearing. "You're too cute."

Rachel looks extremely uncomfortable now and Quinn kind of feels bad, but she's also laughing again because Rachel's cheeks are flushed and she's nibbling her lower lip, and it just looks so—

"You okay, Rachel?" Finn's inserted himself into the situation, standing between Rachel and the Skanks.

Quinn glares at him. "She's fine, dipshit," she murmurs under her breath, but apparently she's bad at whispering when there's alcohol in her system, because everyone looks at her and The Mack snorts.

Finn ignores the insult and his eyes soften. "Rach told me what you did today, Quinn. That was really cool."

Her insides turn to ice and she downs another sip. "I don't know what you're talking about," she chokes out, risking a glance at The Mack, who's peering curiously at Finn.

Rachel nudges his arm and shakes her head at him.

"No, you told me—Artie was gonna get slushied and then Quinn—"

"Shut  _up_!" Quinn shouts, trying to get to her feet, but she wobbles a little and Rachel instantly reaches out to steady her. Quinn clutches at the support, but once she realizes what she's doing, she takes a big step back.

Finn frowns. "Are you  _drunk_?"

"Fucking genius, over here," Sheila mutters.

Rachel is tugging on his elbow now. "Finn, we should go."

He glances at Quinn again. "Let me drive you home," he says gently, like he's doing her the biggest favor ever, and Rachel takes his hand and nods in agreement.

"I don't need your help." She means to look at Finn when she says it, but she's kind of looking at Rachel too.

Finn takes a step forward. "Come on, Quinn. It's no problem."

She backs up until she's against the wall again, and she wants to laugh even more because there are so many problems. "Have a lovely evening," Quinn mutters, locking eyes with him as she takes another swig.

His expression slowly falls until he's almost glaring at her. "Let's get out of here," he murmurs to Rachel, who looks warily at Quinn as she follows him back to the truck.

When they drive away, The Mack's attention is on Quinn. "What was he talking about?" she asks casually enough, but Quinn can hear the warning beneath the question.

"Fuck if I ever know." Quinn takes one final gulp and thrusts the bottle into Ronnie's hands. "Thanks for the vodka," she says, then takes off down the street before any of them can say anything else.

She spends the walk home concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and manages not to stumble too much, but by the time she opens the front door her feet are absolutely aching. She kicks off her boots as she wobbles through the foyer and one of them hits the wall with a loud  _thunk_.

"Quinnie, is that you?" Her mom appears in the doorway to the kitchen before Quinn can answer. "Dinner's almost ready."

"'m not hungry," Quinn mumbles, heading up the stairs.

"How was school?"

Quinn pauses. "I don't really know, actually. I didn't go to class." She thinks a little. "Oh, and I ran into Eric Miller. He says hello." She's holding on to the banister for dear life; it's really hard to balance on stairs  _and_  try to say all the words correctly.

"That's… wonderful," her mom says slowly. "Why didn't you go to class? Were you not feeling well?"

She shrugs. "Nah, I was just busy. I  _was_  in the bathroom a lot, though," she adds, and cracks up laughing.

Quinn can practically hear her mom's arms cross. "Have you been  _drinking_ , young lady?"

"You're getting really good at that 'stern mom' voice."

"Lucy Quinn Fabray, this behavior is unacceptable." Her frown deepens. "It's those girls you've been hanging out with, isn't it?"

Quinn just laughs again. "At least I'm not sleeping with them, right?"

Her mom doesn't respond; she's really good at that, being silent.

She slips into her bedroom and closes the door loudly. Her stomach is grumbling but she ignores it; she's not even sure if she could keep anything down right now. Without the Skanks to worry about, without the booze to distract her, that sick feeling is back with vengeance, and she can't blame it on Rachel this time.

Quinn crawls into bed, laughing softly as she curls up under the covers, because she's always fucking thinking about Rachel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by ProfessorSpork.

A loud banging wakes her up, and she’s not sure why there’s suddenly a construction site in the hallway, but she really wishes they would put their fucking jackhammers away.

Quinn opens her eyes and immediately closes them again when her head nearly explodes with pain; she lifts her pillow and pushes it against her ear to drown out the noise.

“Quinnie!”  More banging.  “You need to get ready for school!”

She frowns into her mattress, trying to remember what school even is, and after a few moments everything from yesterday comes rushing back.

“You’re going to be late, honey.”

Quinn rolls over and takes a breath so she can tell her mom to shut up, but then a wave of nausea hits her and she’s stumbling out of bed as fast as she can.  She throws open the door fully intending to shove past her mom and book it to the bathroom, but then she hunches over right there in the doorway and hurls.

Her mom backs away just in time for whatever’s left in Quinn’s stomach to end up on the carpet instead of her slippers, and Quinn is painfully aware of the way her arm automatically curls around her abdomen as she retches.

When her insides calm down she takes a few deep breaths, gripping the doorframe for support.  “Not going,” she manages.

Judy sighs.  “I’ll get some Lysol.”

“You fucking do that,” Quinn mutters under her breath as she finally makes her way to the bathroom.  She turns on the faucet and scoops some water into her mouth, swishing it around for a few moments before spitting into the sink.  She yanks open the top drawer of the counter and rifles through its contents until she finds a bottle of aspirin; her hands are shaking a little but she eventually gets the cap off and knocks two capsules back.

She goes back out to the hallway and her mom is coming up the stairs, wearing yellow rubber gloves and holding a spray bottle in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other.  Quinn arches an eyebrow at her before heading to her room and closing the door, but even then she can hear the plastic trigger and the paper towels rubbing against the carpet fibers.

She flops onto her bed, buries herself in her covers, and tries to block out all light and sound from the world.

“Quinn, you should eat something,” her mom calls from out in the hallway, and when Quinn doesn’t respond, the door opens.  “Quinn—”

“Do we have any ginger tea?” she interrupts, trying to make her throat sound extra raspy as she rolls over in her bed a little.

“I believe we do, yes.”

Quinn swallows and makes a show of pulling the blankets snugly up to her chin.  “Can you make some?  Mercedes’s mom used to make it for me when I was pregnant.  It helps with the nausea.”

There’s a long beat of silence.  “Of course,” her mom says quietly, and the door closes again.

Quinn takes a deep breath in and out and tries to lay as still as possible.  Her head is pounding and her stomach feels like it could revolt at any moment; she hasn’t felt this not-in-control of her body since—

She lunges for the wastebasket next to her desk and just barely grabs it in time to save the carpet from more puke.  After a few dry-heaves she collapses back onto her bed and burrows into her blankets again and tries to keep her mind blank.

Not too difficult, seeing as how every single particle in her brain is giving her a ton of shit right now.  She focuses all of her energy on each inhale and exhale, filling her lungs and then emptying them, over and over again, steady and consistent.  This is one thing she knows she can do.

There’s a quiet knock on her door before it opens, and a few moments later she hears a mug being placed on her nightstand.

“You should eat something.”

“I’ll just puke it up.”

“Quinn,” she replies with just the slightest hint of warning, “Drink the tea to calm your stomach, and then you need to eat.”

“I’m fine, I’ll drink it in a second,” she mutters against her blankets, but then they’re pulled back and out of her grasp.  “What the hell—”

“You are _not_ fine,” her mom interrupts.  “You’re reckless, and irresponsible, and _hungover_ —”

A small laugh bursts from Quinn’s throat.  “So _that’s_ why I feel like shit.  Thanks for clarifying.”

Her mom’s lips are pressed into a thin, pale line.  “What happened to you, Quinnie?” she asks, her tone quiet now.

Quinn looks her square in the eye.  “You,” she says softly, coldly, before yanking the covers back over herself again.

Her mom doesn’t move for a long moment.  “I’ll call Principal Figgins and let him know you’re home sick.”  Her voice is thick.

Quinn can’t bring herself to care.

.

She’s so fucking happy she doesn’t have to smoke any cigarettes today.  It’s early afternoon now and her head is still aching and she can barely take five breaths without suppressing the urge to puke again. She finally gathers the energy to sit up and grab the mug with a shaking hand; the tea is cold now, but she takes a sip anyway, then lunges for the wastebasket again and vomits it back up.

The taste reminds Quinn of plus signs and morning sickness and feeling a person growing inside of her, of carrying that life under her shirt and then holding it in her arms nine months later, of giving that life away to someone she barely knew.

She wipes her mouth, grabs the mug, and empties it in the bathroom sink.

.

Quinn’s phone buzzes against her nightstand, dragging her out of the achy sleep she’d finally settled into, and she frowns against her pillow.  She snakes an arm out from under her blankets and feels around for a moment before bringing the phone into the darkness with her, which ends up being a horrible idea because the light from the screen kills her eyes and sends a jolt of pain through her skull.

When her vision finally clears and she squints at the screen again, she assumes she’s hallucinating or something.  Does that happen during hangovers?

Because why the hell would she have a text from Rachel?

She rolls her eyes and drops the phone face-down on the mattress, because what could Rachel want to say to her?  Maybe she’s alerted the Lima Police about Quinn’s underage drinking, or maybe she’s run out of people who will listen to her complain about Finn and needs a new set of ears.  Whatever it is, Quinn doesn’t care.

But seriously, what would Rachel possibly be texting her about?

She chews on her bottom lip as she picks up her phone again and opens the message, then reads each word carefully to make sure she hasn’t misinterpreted anything.

**I noticed you’re not at school today.  Are you all right?**

Quinn arches an eyebrow in disbelief, though given the fact that Rachel’s been butting in so much recently, she shouldn’t be surprised that she’s escalating to electronic communication.  She glares at the message until the screen goes black again, and she’s definitely not going to text Rachel back, not give her the satisfaction of a response.  Besides, what does she care if Rachel’s worried or whatever?  Her paranoia isn’t Quinn’s responsibility.

Then again, she wouldn’t put it past Rachel to assume that silence means the worst and send an ambulance over.

“ **I’m fine** ” is the reassuring response she comes up with, and not even a minute after she sends it, she gets another text.

**I’m not sure I believe you, but your response indicates that you’re at least alive and functioning.  I’ll see you tomorrow.**

Quinn glares so hard at the screen, she half expects it to crack.  _I’m not sure I believe you_ … Where the fuck does Rachel get off saying something like that?  _Dear Quinn, allow me to ask you a question and then assume your answer is bullshit.  Dear Quinn, I enjoy meddling in your life even though you clearly wish to be left alone.  Dear Quinn, my boyfriend is a fucking moron and I need your help to stick him in a box and ship him to Greenland._

She frowns into the darkness and slams her phone back onto the nightstand, because she’s really starting to hate how much she thinks about this stuff.

 _See you tomorrow_.

Fuck her.

.

This time it’s Quinn’s stomach that wakes her up, growling and twisting itself into painful knots, begging her to put something in it so it doesn’t have to devour itself.

She sits up and her headache stays at a dull roar, so she swings her legs over the side of the bed and gets to her feet.  The floor sways beneath her for a moment but she grits her teeth and takes a few deep breaths until the dizziness passes, then slowly makes her way downstairs.  The kitchen seems farther away than usual but she finally makes it over the threshold, and just as she’s mentally jumping for joy that her mom is MIA, she hears her come in from the living room.

“Quinn?”

She turns around too fast and her head starts spinning and she reaches out to grip the wall, but then there’s a hand on her wrist and an arm around her waist and she _really_ wishes Rachel would stop trying to help her—

“Sweetie, you need to eat something.”

She blinks her vision into focus and realizes it’s her mom looking back at her, then immediately twists out of her hold.  “I _got_ it,” she grumbles, carefully making her way over to the fridge, and it takes an obnoxious amount of effort to yank it open and pull out a jug of orange juice.  Quinn can feel her mom watching her as she gets a glass from the cupboard, pours some juice, and takes a few long gulps, and when she swallows the final sip, it takes all her self control not to slam the glass against the counter.  “Do you have nothing better to do than stand there and make sure I don’t fuck anything else up?”

There’s a long moment of silence.  “I love you, Quinnie,” her mom says in a small voice, “I love you so much—”

“What did God say that one time?” Quinn interrupts, putting her glass in the sink.  “‘Thou shall not lie’ or some shit like that.”

“Language,” her mom replies half-heartedly.

Quinn laughs as she grabs a box of cereal from the cupboard.  “Man, this house is just _full_ of sinners.  Think if I call Dad and tell him you’ve been bearing false witness, he’ll make you see a shrink, too?”

A tear slips down her mom’s cheek and she quickly wipes it away.  “Why do you think I don’t love you?”

“Should I start from the beginning and work my way forward, or would you prefer the most recent examples first?”  She pops some Honey Nut Cheerios into her mouth and crunches them loudly.  “Or I can just skip around.  Whatever’s easiest.”

Her mom swallows hard but doesn’t say anything.

Quinn smiles.  “Think it over and give me a shout when you decide.”  She leaves the kitchen still munching on Cheerios and heads back up to her room, curls up in her bed with the cereal box, and grabs her phone again.

_I noticed you’re not at school today.  Are you all right?_

She pops another handful of Cheerios into her mouth and thinks about the way her mom’s mouth tightens when she’s trying not to cry; the way that red-headed girl’s eyes changed when she recognized Quinn as the predator and herself as prey.  She thinks about how she can’t make The Mack happy without making everyone else miserable.

_“You can get off your fucking high horse and actually act like a Skank.”_

Quinn can still feel the girl quaking beneath her arm as she led her into the bathroom stall.

_“It’s those girls you’ve been hanging out with, isn’t it?”_

She feels The Mack standing behind her, breathing down her neck, smirking into the mirror.  _“Nice work, kiddo.”_

Quinn puts her phone back on the table, lets the cereal box fall to the floor, and curls up under her blankets again.

_Are you all right?_

She’s fine.

.

Quinn goes straight to the bleachers when she gets to school the next day, cigarette already half-smoked and apathetic expression firmly in place; knowing the Skanks, she’s probably supposed to be twice as much of an asshole as usual to make up for her absence.

“Hey, sweetie,” The Mack greets, her voice unnaturally pleasant.  “We missed you yesterday.”

Quinn takes a long drag on her cigarette to give herself more time to think, because she has no fucking clue how to respond to that.  “Shucks, guys,” she finally mutters, smirking just a little as she takes a seat on the couch.

“Bet that cripple kid missed you more,” Sheila says with an unreadable expression, and Quinn almost drops her cigarette.

“Excuse me?”

The Mack sits at the other end of the couch and swings her legs over before dropping her feet into Quinn’s lap and crossing her ankles.  “Well, if you ain’t around, who’s gonna be his slushy savior?”

Quinn swallows hard and focuses all her attention on taking another drag.  “If there’s something you wanna say”—she blows the smoke out—“Just fucking say it.”

She nods.  “Okay.  How ‘bout, what the _fuck_.”

“Ever so eloquent,” Quinn murmurs under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”  She flicks some ash away.  “Lay it on me.”

The Mack laughs.  “You really want me to lay it on you?”

Quinn rolls her eyes.  “I have shit to do, so if this is just gonna go in circles all day—”

She gets off the couch and leans over Quinn, planting a hand on the back cushion to the left and right of Quinn’s head.  Her knee comes up to rest next to Quinn’s thigh, then the other knee on the other side, until The Mack is basically straddling her.

Something in her stomach twists, because she’s never been this close to a girl and her body is filled with this electricity that absolutely terrifies her.

“Look,” The Mack breathes, their faces barely an inch apart, “I’m not messing around anymore.  You _need_ us, and we need you to quit these fucking charity cases.”

With every passing moment she has to remind herself not to move, not to lean forward or touch or react at all, because it’s The Mack and there’s nothing right about this.

“Me and Ronnie and Sheila,” she continues, waiting a beat in between each name, “are the only reason why you’re not the laughing stock of this fucking school right now.”

Quinn clenches her jaw a few times and tries to keep her breathing even.  “What’s your point?”

“Tell me to my face that you don’t have a soft spot for those losers.”

She can feel The Mack’s hot breath against her mouth.  “I don’t.”

The Mack smiles.  “Great,” she says, then slowly wets her lips.  “Berry’s your new target.”

Quinn’s throat goes dry and clears her throat.  “Why?”

“Why _not_?”  The Mack cocks her head to the side.  “Since when do you give a shit who we go after?”

“I don’t,” she replies, just barely keeping her voice steady.  “What d’you want me to do?”

The Mack frowns thoughtfully.  “I mean, the way you stare at that chick… I figure you either hate her guts, or…”

“Just tell me what the _fuck_ do you want me to do,” Quinn grits out; her heart is racing and she feels like her entire body is on fire.

She laughs again, softly this time.  “Up to you, kiddo.  I’m giving you some freedom this time.  Be creative.”  She ends her sentence with a wink and abruptly pushes herself back off the couch, tossing one final smirk over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

Quinn hasn’t moved a muscle.  Her fists are clenched at her sides and every inch of her is rigid, tense, still in defensive mode even though The Mack is gone.  It takes her a few seconds to realize that Sheila and Ronnie have vanished as well, and that she has no idea if they were even here to see what just happened.  She’s not sure which scenario she’d hate more.

But none of that matters right now because she’s up and walking quickly, _not_ running, to the auditorium, so she can be alone and small and invisible and safe.  Her eyes are burning by the time she reaches the door, but then it’s opening from the inside and she stops in her tracks because Rachel is suddenly in front of her.

“Hello, Quinn!” she greets with a smile.  “Were you… going to use the auditorium?”

Quinn shakes her head.  “No.  I was—no,” she mutters, turning to walk away.

“My allotted practice time is over—the stage is completely free, if you want it.”

“I don’t,” she replies without looking back.

“Music can be a very beneficial emotional outlet—”

Quinn whips around.  “If I want your opinion,” she snaps, “I’ll ask for it.”

Rachel nibbles her bottom lip for a moment.  “Thank you for texting me back yesterday.  For letting me know you were okay.”

Quinn turns on her heel and starts walking as fast as she can, and this time Rachel doesn’t say anything.

.

By lunch she’s all but exhausted herself trying to avoid both the Skanks and Rachel.  She wonders several times why she got trapped in this mess in the first place, but then she remembers The Mack’s face right up against hers, explaining _exactly_ why she is where she is, and her stomach twists into knots again.

This would be so much easier if Rachel didn’t insist on treating her like she’s some misguided twelve-year-old, on pretending that everything is fine and Quinn is normal, like there’s nothing complicated or messy about this and she can fix everything with a simple Rachel Berry smile.  She just wants Rachel to leave her _alone_.

That’s when it hits her.

The nastier she is to her mom—no filter, no holding back, no guilt—the less Judy fights back.  She lets Quinn walk all over her, or ignores her completely, which is exactly what she needs from Rachel.  If she does this, if she does something to Rachel, it might just be the last straw… enough to make her back off completely.

Maybe The Mack really does understand her best.

She takes a sip from her water bottle and swallows hard, trying to figure out what the fuck she should actually _do_.  Slushies are the jocks’ thing; same with throwing her into a dumpster.  Stealing her lunch money doesn’t feel Skank-y enough, nor would it likely stop Rachel from following her around like a fucking babysitter.  A swirly… it would do the trick, but the only time she’s ever done one solo was with a complete stranger, younger than her, who barely fought back at all.  Rachel would be an entirely different story.

Quinn rubs her eyes, wincing at the blister that’s forming on her left heel.

(She tells herself she just needs new shoes, and leaves it at that.)

.

When the bell rings, Quinn dumps her stuff in her locker, because going to the auditorium sounds a lot more appealing than having the back of Rachel’s head in her determinedly peripheral vision for an hour.

She closes the door and makes it four steps down the hallway before she hears Rachel’s voice.

“Quinn, aren’t you coming to English?”

“Fuck off, Berry,” she growls without turning around, but she doubts Rachel so much as flinched at her response.

As she continues to walk in the opposite direction, she wonders if a swirly would finally get Rachel to leave her alone; if it would get the Skanks to back off; if The Mack would be proud of her.

She thinks about what happened on the couch this morning and shivers.

.

Quinn heads into the bathroom, leans against the sink, and waits.  Within a few minutes she can hear Rachel singing faintly from the choir room across the hall, and she turns a faucet on full blast to drown out the noise.  If she wanted to listen to this girl whine about juvenile problems for an hour, she’d go to glee club.

She thinks about what she might say when Rachel comes through that door.  Should she even say anything?  With strangers, it’s simple; with someone who’s younger than you, it’s even simpler.  But she hasn’t done anything against a person she knows, against a fr—

Quinn nearly smacks herself across the face when the thought crosses her mind.  How many times has The Mack reminded her that they’re _not_ her friends, that they’ve never been there for her and never will be, that she owes them nothing?  And honestly, it’s a lot easier to believe that than anything that comes out of Rachel’s mouth.

“Oh, hi Quinn!”

She snaps to attention and finds Rachel studying her, like she’s confused or something.

“What are you doing?” Rachel asks.

Quinn remembers that she’s standing there with the faucet running.  “Washing my hands,” she mutters, turning around and holding her palms in the water.  “What’s it look like?”

Rachel nods once.  “I see.  My apologies.”

When Quinn hears her open one of the stalls, she pounces before she can think twice.  She whips around and grabs Rachel by the shoulders, ignoring her yelps of protest as she tries to push Rachel to her knees.

“Quinn, please!  What on earth—”

“ _Stop_ ,” she interrupts with a small shove.  “Stop talking to me, stop trying to fucking—just _stop_.”  And then Rachel’s face is in the toilet, and she pulls the lever, and she feels Rachel sag beneath her.  Quinn stands up and exits the stall.  “Stay the _fuck_ out of my life,” she growls as she leaves the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Quinn jerks awake, her body rigid against the mattress and an awful, uneasy feeling in her chest.  Her breathing is loud and her hands are shaking; she rolls over, shoves them under her pillow, and squeezes her eyes shut.

She’s exactly where she was twenty-four hours ago—nauseous and with a headache—but this time, there’s no vodka in her system.


	4. Chapter 4

There are three more swirlies before her alarm goes off, each one exactly the same as the last, and as Quinn drags herself through her morning routine, she thinks she might be more exhausted now than she was before she went to sleep.

She blasts the radio on the way to school, and when she steps out of her car she’s grateful for once that her boots give her blisters; the vague stinging keeps her from falling asleep upright.  It can’t force her brain to function, though, and it takes her four tries to twist the correct combination on her locker.  When she almost picks the wrong notebooks she clenches her jaw and hits her forehead against the locker beside hers, because trivial daily tasks should not be this difficult.

The images from last night keep popping up in her head—god, she still can’t tune out dream-Rachel’s voice pleading for her to stop—and Quinn starts to wonder if she’s literally sleepwalking around WMHS right now.

“Maybe if you just… I dunno, toned it down a little, they wouldn’t say stuff like that.”

“Finn, I refuse to belittle my singing abilities just so our fellow glee club members will feel better about their own.  If they would just work harder and genuinely _improve_ , they wouldn’t have to deal with the talent gap by making subtly hurtful remarks.”

There’s no _way_ Quinn is conscious, because finding Rachel and Finn arguing in the middle of the hallway is way too great to be reality.

“Look, Rach,” he says, digging his hands deep into his pockets; maybe that’s where he keeps his Rachel Berry Study Guide.  “I know it sucks when they treat you that way, but don’t let it bother you.  You said it yourself—they only do it because they know how great you are.”

Rachel waits a beat.  “I guess you’re right.”

Quinn rolls her eyes just as Finn smiles.

“And, like, that’s my point.  They already know— _everyone_ knows—so maybe you don’t need to prove yourself anymore.  Maybe you can, y’know… ease off the gas a bit.”  He pauses, his smile shrinking.  “I meant that as in, the gas pedal in a car.  Like, you can slow down and stuff.”

“I understood the metaphor, Finn,” she says, and apparently Quinn is the only one to notice the exasperation beneath the forced calm.

“Great!” Finn replies, grinning again.  “So, I’ll see you later?”

“I’ll see you later,” she echoes, and he leans forward a bit like he’s expecting a kiss but she turns and walks away instead.  Rachel notices Quinn before she can pretend to not have been listening, and she gets a quiet “Hello, Quinn” as Rachel passes.

She takes a breath to say “Hey” back before she remembers she’s supposed to be avoiding Rachel as much as possible, and then she’s thinking about those stupid swirlies that didn’t actually happen, and she slams her locker door so hard that a girl across the hallway jumps.

.

Quinn only goes to the Skanks’ spot under the bleachers in hopes that a cigarette and some adrenalin will wake her up, but instead of finding the whole group, it’s just Ronnie reading a book.  Ronnie looks up at Quinn’s footsteps and shoves it into her jacket pocket, but not before Quinn gets a look at the cover—it’s _The Metamorphosis_.

“Mack and Sheila went to break into the vending machine,” Ronnie grumbles.

Quinn lights a cigarette.  “Okay.”

“If you tell _anyone_ about—”

“I really don’t care.”

Ronnie lights up as well and takes a long drag before letting it out slowly.  “It’s not even about a butterfly.  He’s a fucking cockroach thing.”  She flicks some ash away.  “Fucking depressing.”

“Only sometimes.”

Ronnie’s silent for a moment.  “Figure out what you’re doing to Berry yet?”

Quinn lets out an empty laugh.  “So she told you guys about that.”  She shakes her head.  “Like I need a fucking _baby_ sitter or something.”

“She just likes talking shit about people.  She thinks you’re gonna flake.”

“I won’t.”

Ronnie gives her a look.  “So, what are you gonna do?” she asks again.

“I don’t know yet,” she replies after a beat, clenching her jaw.

“Mack’ll give you hell if you take too long.”

She wets her lips and breathes in more smoke.  “She’ll give me hell no matter what I do.”

“Awww, look at you kids bonding,” The Mack says from behind Quinn, who does her best not to flinch at her sudden presence.  “Whatcha talking about?”

“Nothing,” she says automatically, turning to face her.

“Nothing, huh?”  The Mack pulls a Twizzler from the pack in her hand and bites off a piece.  “Why doesn’t Berry look upset?”

Quinn fidgets with the lighter in her pocket but doesn’t break eye contact.  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Tick, tock, Quinnie.”

“I said _yet_ ,” she snaps.  “It’ll _happen_.”

The Mack smirks and takes another bite of her Twizzler.  “That’s more like it,” she purrs, and her breath smells like strawberry candy.  “Bitch looks good on you.”

Something coils in her stomach.  “Fuck you,” she replies, trying to sound apathetic rather than flustered but failing miserably, and she walks past The Mack and away from the bleachers.

“I’ll think about it,” The Mack calls out.

Quinn can’t get to the auditorium fast enough.

.

She’s been trying to play this melody for ten minutes, the same melody she’s been playing since school started, but she keeps fucking it up every single time and her hands are shaking in frustration.

Her finger hits the wrong note again and she slams her elbows down onto the keys, then buries her face in her hands and tries to take deep breaths.  She can feel moisture behind her eyes but she pushes it away; they’re just tired tears, angry tears, and they have nothing to do with anything else besides the fact that she’s fucking exhausted and she can’t play this fucking song right.

Quinn sighs finally and folds her arms along the keys, resting her temple against her wrist and letting her eyes droop closed.  She just needs a second to relax, and she’ll be fine.

_She pounces, grips Rachel by the shoulders, and pushes her to a kneeling position._

_“Quinn, please!  What on earth—”_

_“ **Stop** ,” Quinn interrupts, shoving Rachel closer to the toilet.  “Stop trying to talk to me, stop trying to fucking—just **stop**.”  She gives Rachel one last push and then pulls the lever, and she lets go when she feels Rachel sag beneath her.  “Stay the **fuck** out of my life,” she growls as she leaves the stall._

_“Quinn.”_

_She ignores the voice and keeps heading for the door._

_“Quinn,” she hears again, and then there’s a hand on her shoulder._

The bathroom dissolves around her but the pressure on her shoulder doesn’t, and when she opens her eyes, she’s looking up at Rachel.

“You were asleep,” Rachel says, and her hand is still on Quinn’s shoulder.  “Are you okay?”

The physical contact and Rachel’s voice send a jolt through her system and she abruptly sits up.  “I’m fine,” Quinn says vaguely as she stuffs her left foot into its boot and reaches for the other one.

“You’re welcome to stay if you’d like.  I just need to use the piano.”

Quinn ties her laces into a hasty knot.  “I told you to fuck off,” she mutters, not quite managing the hostile, authoritative tone from her dreams, and leaves the stage as quickly as possible.

She needs to get Rachel off her back, and she needs to do it _now_.

.

“Now” ends up being the next day, when she’s finally figured out a plan.  It’s not a swirly (because of reasons that she refuses to overanalyze), and she has to rely on the douchebags of the student body to do what they do best, but it’s specific enough to humiliate Rachel, and Quinn doesn’t even have to lay a finger on her.

It happens during lunch.  Quinn is on her way to pass in a (very) late paper when she rounds a corner just in time to see Rick the Stick fling a slushy at Rachel.  Quinn stops in her tracks and heads in the other direction, toward Rachel’s locker as fast as her boots will carry her.  She takes a piece of paper out of her pocket; Rachel wrote down her combination for Quinn last year when they were working on their mashup, so Quinn could get sheet music while Rachel brainstormed, and it had been sitting in the bottom of her desk drawer until last night.

She spins the dial and the lock clicks open and she all but yanks it from the door.  What she’s looking for is immediately right in front of her face: Rachel’s spare set of clothes is folded neatly on top of a collapsible plastic shelf.  Quinn grabs them and closes the locker, taking the lock with her as she goes to the bathroom down the hall.

The stalls are empty and she’s glad she doesn’t have an audience as she puts Rachel’s clothes in the nearest sink and turns both of the faucet knobs on full blast.  It’s not that she feels bad about what she’s doing… she just knows it’s a completely dick move.  But that’s the point, the whole reason why she needs to do it in the first place.  She needs Rachel to understand that she’s done being the Quinn Fabray that Rachel’s convinced is still there somewhere, done letting Rachel think she’s ever going back to the version of herself that everyone pretended to like.

She’s _done_ , and she needs Rachel to be done, too.

Quinn leans back against the wall as Rachel’s clothes continue to soak, twirling the lock around on her index finger as she waits.

It barely takes any time at all; the door opens and Rachel appears, her sweater drenched in strawberry corn syrup, and her eyes are glassy and disbelieving as she looks from Quinn to the lock to her clothes in the sink and then back to Quinn.

“Quinn,” she says quietly, and her voice cracks.  “What—?”

“Stop,” Quinn interrupts, her voice low and firm, and she places the lock on the base of the sink, near the faucet.  “Stop trying to talk to me, stop trying to f—”  The “fix me” gets caught in her throat and she clenches her jaw.  “Just fucking _stop_.”

Rachel swallows thickly, and after a beat, nods.  “Okay.”

Quinn leaves the bathroom without another word, but the door swings closed just slowly enough that she can hear Rachel turn the faucet off.

She goes directly to the bleachers, keeping her mind completely blank except for the sentence “I did it,” so she can tell The Mack and get her off her back and return to being the money counter.  Quinn thinks this might actually be the first time she’s looked forward to interacting with her, let alone been happy to see her leaning against one of the support columns.

“Hey, kiddo,” The Mack greets, her tone overly sweet as she gives Quinn a once-over, as if it’s obvious what she’s just done.  “Got anything to share with the class?”

Quinn takes out a cigarette and brings it to her lips.  “I did it,” she mutters as she tries to get her lighter to work.

The Mack’s smirk widens.  “Did what?  Come on, don’t hold out on us,” she says, gesturing to Ronnie and Sheila, who are both sitting on the couch.

“The thing you wanted me to do to Berry,” she replies, and she hates how close she comes to saying “Rachel” by accident.  “It’s done.”

Sheila rolls her eyes.  “ _Details_ , bitch.”

Quinn takes a long drag and holds it in for a beat.  “Somebody slushied her, so I broke into her locker and stole her extra clothes.”  She flicks some ash away.  “Then I soaked them in the bathroom sink so she couldn’t change.”

The Mack crosses her arms.  “Does she know it was you?”

“Yeah,” Quinn replies, wetting her lips.  “She knows.”

She looks positively delighted.  “Well _shit_ , I’m impressed.  Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Surprise,” Quinn deadpans, then puts out her cigarette.  “I gotta go.”

The Mack’s attention is already back on Ronnie and Sheila, who are plotting revenge against some teacher Quinn doesn’t know, so she turns away and starts back toward the school, wincing a bit with every other step.

Fucking blisters.

.

Quinn’s the second-to-last person to get to her English class; Rachel arrives just before the bell, practically swimming in what looks like one of Finn’s button-up flannel shirts, cinched at her waist to keep it from looking like a really short dress, and there’s a single blotch of slushy still visible on her skirt.

Quinn’s heart is racing, and she tells herself it’s just adrenalin, the satisfaction from a job well done.

Rachel doesn’t say hello to Quinn, doesn’t even look in her direction, and she sits in Quinn’s row, several seats ahead, so Quinn can only see her if she leans over.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, wondering if there’s a difference between feeling like the weight’s been lifted off your shoulders and feeling empty.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a riddle: If it takes me three months to write a 2,200-word chapter and it takes me three days to write a 4,200-word chapter, how long will it take me to finish the entire fic?

“Are you ready to apologize?”

At Rachel’s question, Quinn nearly drops the book she’s taking out of her locker; she whips around with about twenty different insults lodged in her throat, because they were doing _such_ a great job with this zero-interaction thing, but Rachel is across the hall talking to Finn.

His facial expression is a mix of pouting and confusion as he takes in her tightly crossed arms and rigid posture.  “I don’t get why you’re still mad,” he mumbles, scratching his head anxiously.

“Finn,” she begins, her voice slow and careful, “We’ve been either pursuing each other or dating on and off for approximately two years now.  You should be able to remember that I’m a _vegan_.”

He shrugs.  “I’m sorry, okay?  There’s just—a lot of things that I’m supposed to remember about you, and it gets confusing sometimes—”

“Then forget my birthday if you must, or what my top five favorite Broadway shows are, because those don’t result in me staying up all night vomiting.”

“Look, I said I was sorry.  Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Quinn knows she should be getting as far from this conversation, from these people, as possible, but she can’t make her feet move.

Rachel sighs.  “Yes,” she says, her voice tight.

Finn gives her a lopsided smile and lifts his hand to caress her cheek; Quinn’s stomach churns and she clenches her jaw.  “So what d’you say we move past this?  I’ll try harder to remember stuff, I promise.”

If he’s bothered by the long pause before Rachel’s “Of course,” he doesn’t show it.

“Come on,” he says, reaching for her hand, “I’ll walk you to class.”

Rachel doesn’t let him take it.  “Actually, I’m going to go to the choir room to make up for the lost practice time.  I’ll see you later.”  She leans up and gives him a peck on the cheek before walking away, and his smile shrinks just a little.

“It ain’t polite to stare.”

Quinn flinches at the sound of The Mack’s voice in her ear and she immediately turns back to her own locker, keeping her eyes straight ahead.  “I wasn’t staring.”

The Mack leans sideways against the locker next to Quinn’s.  “Don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret.”  She winks, and then she’s gone.

Quinn tries to keep her breathing even as a lump rises in her throat, as her eyes start to burn, and after a long moment she manages to push it all back down.  She closes her locker and heads to class, because teachers don’t get in your personal space or ask invasive questions or know things about you that could ruin everything; they assign homework that doesn’t hurt anyone and give grades that don’t make you sick to your stomach.

European history is so much easier to deal with than her own.

.

As she sits in her car in the quickly emptying parking lot, she realizes she has no idea where to go.  Hanging out with the Skanks means constant reminders of the person she’s expected to be, never-ending scrutiny, satisfaction that only lasts for moments at a time; she hasn’t been to the auditorium since Rachel woke her up, because she’s too paranoid to think Rachel won’t walk in on her again; and going home means dealing with her mom, which is getting more and more unbearable every day.

On the other hand, her mom is the only person she can be a bitch to and get away with it, so maybe that’s her best option.

When Quinn walks through the front door she’s greeted with silence; on the kitchen table there’s a note that says “ _Out to dinner with a friend from college.  Won’t be home till late.  Love, Mom._ ”

She crumples the note and throws it in the trash, then goes up to her room, plugs in her mp3 player, and cranks the volume.  Quinn goes to her dresser and opens the polished wooden jewelry box sitting on top, and something catches her eye: it’s her silver cross necklace, peeking out from the bottom of the pile.

Little by little she removes her bracelets and necklaces, all the stupid shit she’s bought with the Skanks at thrift shops, and piles them on top until it’s completely buried.

.

_The hallway is empty as she heads to her locker, but then she sees that Rachel’s is still missing its lock.  She frowns and opens the door and finds what looks like Finn’s shirt and jeans folded neatly on the shelf._

_Her stomach lurches; she doubles over and throws up, but instead of bile coming from her throat, it’s water.  More comes up before she can take a breath and soon she’s hunched on her hands and knees, trying so hard to get oxygen into her lungs as the water keeps pouring out._

_It finally stops and she gulps in as much air as she can, but then she realizes there’s water trickling out of Rachel’s open locker now.  Quinn scoots backwards, away from the locker, but then the trickle becomes an enormous stream and suddenly the entire hallway is flooded.  She can’t feel the floor anymore and she struggles to stay afloat, but her boots are too heavy, weighing her down and pulling her deeper into the water._

_She thinks she sees a head of long brown hair disappear around the corner and she tries to call out, but her mouth is filled with water again and she only manages a few weak gurgling sounds._

.

“You look like _shit_ ,” is the first thing out of The Mack’s mouth when Quinn shows up under the bleachers the next day.

“Wow,” Quinn mutters around the cigarette she’s lighting, “That really hurts my feelings.”

The Mack snorts.  “Someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

“More like the fact that I woke up at all, actually.”

Ronnie’s looking at her carefully.  “Seriously, what’s up with you?”

She rolls her eyes.  “Jesus, I’m _fine_.  Is there nothing else we can talk about besides ‘Why isn’t Quinn a ray of fucking sunshine today?’”

“Why would I change the subject when this one pisses you off so much?”

Quinn glares at The Mack.  “Look, if you guys aren’t going to distract me from—”

“From what?” she interrupts, cocking her head to the side, a dangerous gleam in her eye.

“Nothing,” Quinn mutters, putting all of her focus into flicking away some ash.  “Forget about it.”

The Mack shoves away from the column she’s leaning against and starts to walk toward her slowly.  “But now I’m concerned,” she says, her tone overly-serious.  “Something troubling you?”

Quinn looks her square in the eye.  “Nothing.  I’m fine.”  But she’s not, because her heart skips a beat with every step forward that The Mack takes.

“Come on,” she continues, “We’re your closest friends.  Tell us what’s wrong.”  By now she’s directly in front of Quinn, and she takes a long drag from her cigarette.  “You can trust us,” she says, the words coming out as smoke that swirls between their faces.

Quinn drops her cigarette to the ground without looking away.  “I have to go.”

The Mack smirks.  “Of course you do.”

She bites her bottom lip as she walks away to stop it from trembling.  She needs to find somewhere she can just _breathe_ for a second, and the bathroom is the only place she can think of, so she ducks into the first one she comes to.

Quinn grips the left and right edges of one of the sinks, stares into space as she lets out a shuddering breath, clenches her jaw as she tries to swallow the lump in her throat.  She looks down into the empty sink and remembers Rachel’s clothes, remembers her dream from last night, and just as she starts to feel moisture building behind her eyes, she glances into the mirror.

In one of the stalls is a set of feet wearing dark purple flats and argyle knee socks.

Quinn practically chokes on air as something in her chest clenches; she sniffs back the tears and all but runs out of the bathroom, and she has to actively resist kicking off her boots as she heads to her locker.  She grabs the notebook for the class she’s ten minutes late for, slams the door, and starts walking toward the science wing.

Where the fuck _else_ is she gonna go?

.

By the time lunch rolls around she’s absolutely had it with this building, where there are people everywhere and doors she can’t lock, because for the love of God, she just wants to be _alone_.  She doesn’t want to talk to anybody, doesn’t want to _look_ at anybody and see their judgment or disappointment or both, because she’s just _done_.

That’s why, when she walks around the corner and sees Sheila and Ronnie cornering Rachel down the hallway, she stops dead in her tracks.

Ronnie is gesturing at Rachel’s pockets and Rachel shakes her head.  “I-I’m sorry,” she stutters, “I don’t have a sufficient amount this week.  My dads had to get the car inspected to there’s been a slight delay in my allowance—”

“Whatever, Berry,” Sheila interrupts.  “Give us what you have on you and you’ll owe double next time.”

Rachel pulls out a few ones.  “I only brought enough to buy a snack after school.”

“Sounds great,” Ronnie replies with a smirk, taking the money and tucking it away.  “We’re done here.”

Rachel nods once.  “Have a lovely afternoon,” she says quietly before walking away.

Maybe she hates that they’re still bullying Rachel after what Quinn did to her, or maybe she just hates that they’re interacting with Rachel in general when her own rule is that she can’t, but whatever the reason is, the only thought in her mind right now is _fuck this_.

“Why did you do that?” she demands, heading toward Ronnie and Sheila

Sheila cocks an eyebrow.  “Do _what_?”

“Did Mack tell you to do it?  Does she think I didn’t do enough?”

“Quinn, what the fuck—”

“We’ve put her through enough shit already,” she says, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.  “Leave her alone.”

Sheila’s expression shifts into a glare.  “Like hell I’m gonna leave her alone.  Stay the fuck out of it.”

“Quinn,” Ronnie starts, but Quinn ignores her and gets as close to Sheila as she dares.

“Stay away from her,” she says coldly through gritted teeth.

Sheila shoves her backwards.  “Why d’you care so much, huh?”

Quinn shoves her harder.  “I don’t.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, bitch.”

Quinn clenches her jaw.  “Shut up.”

Ronnie looks her square in the eye.  “Or what?”

Quinn pushes her again, this time back against the lockers with a dull clang.  Ronnie retaliates right away, shoving Quinn with enough force to make her grunt.

“Don’t start a fight you ain’t ready for,” Sheila pants, nostrils flaring.

“Don’t give someone hell who doesn’t deserve it,” Quinn growls in response.

“Quinn, what are you doing?”

She hasn’t heard that voice say her name in days and it catches her attention automatically; Rachel is standing a few yards away, her expression a strange mix of confusion and anger and concern.

Before Quinn has time to figure out what to say, a fist collides with her mouth and her head jerks back, her bottom lip exploding in pain.  She tastes blood and winds up to return the favor but a firm hand grips her wrist; for a split second she wonders if it’s The Mack’s and she freezes.

“Never thought I’d be dragging _you_ down to the office,” Coach Sylvester says, and Quinn relaxes just a little.

Mr. Schue has appeared as well and he gestures to Sheila.  “You, too—let’s go.”

Quinn loses track of Ronnie and Rachel as they’re escorted to Principal Figgins’s office, and when they cross the threshold, his eyes dart back and forth between Quinn and Sheila.

“We caught these two posterchildren for teenage rebellion having a little skirmish in the hallway,” Coach Sylvester explains.

“It was just some pushing and shoving,” Mr. Schuester adds, “One punch.”

“Would’ve been two if we’d intervened any later.”  She leans slightly toward Quinn.  “You could’ve taken her,” she mutters under her breath.

Figgins sighs.  “Do either of you have anything to say for yourselves?” he asks, glancing from Quinn to Sheila again, but neither of them responds.  “Well, as small as this fight allegedly was, we have a zero-tolerance policy for violence here at McKinley.  You two will stay after school this afternoon for detention.”

“Whatever,” Sheila mutters with a roll of her eyes.

“I will also be contacting your parents to inform them of your violation of policy.  Please take a seat in the meantime.”

Quinn’s heart is sinks, because she really didn’t want to involve her mom in any of this, but she follows Sheila beyond the first doorway and into the waiting area.

Rachel is sitting in one of the chairs, and Quinn freezes.

Sheila slumps into a seat at the other end of the row, which leaves Quinn to sit smack in the middle of them.

She gently touches a fingertip to her bottom lip and grimaces at the bruise she can already feel forming.

“Are you okay?”

Rachel’s question is so quiet, so careful, and Quinn can’t bear to look at her.

“I’m fine,” she mumbles back.

“Are you sure?”

 “Miss Fabray,” Principal Figgins interrupts from the next room, “I have your mother on the phone and she would like to speak with you.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and goes back into the office and Figgins hands her the phone.  “Hello?”

“Quinnie!  Principal Figgins just told me what happened—”

“It’s really not a big deal,” she interrupts, because her mom sounds way too freaked out about this.  “It was barely even a fight.”

There’s a beat of hesitation.  “It wasn’t about…”  Her voice drops slightly.  “You didn’t _tell_ anyone, did you?  Was it because of that?”

Quinn is barely breathing as she holds the phone in a white-knuckle grip, because her mom is so terrified of this _thing_ that she can’t even talk about it, and yet as soon as something bad happens, it’s the first reason she jumps to.

She puts the phone back on its receiver and leaves the office without another word.

Tears are welling in her eyes as she books it down the hallway and she’s not sure she can stop them this time, and she needs to find a place to explode where no one will be around to watch her.  She passes the bathrooms one by one, skipping all of them because it’s almost the end of the period and they’ll all be full in a few minutes, and she’s heading out of the building and toward the auditorium before she makes the conscious decision to do so.

Rachel is still in the office for all she knows, and Quinn can’t imagine her skipping their English class, so she figures it’s as safe a bet as any; and does she really have another option?

She stumbles up to the stage and right past the piano, sinking to the floor behind the stage-left curtain, bringing her knees to her chest and digging her fingers into her hair and taking deep breaths.

And then she’s crying.

It’s the first time she’s let anything out in months, and her lungs are practically aching as her ragged breaths escalate to sobs, because she’s so fucking _angry_.

.

_She’s never been so scared in her life, not even when she had to tell her dad she was pregnant, because this doesn’t just change nine months of their lives; this changes **everything**._

_“Mom?” she whispers, so quietly that Judy doesn’t hear her, so she clears her throat and repeats it a bit louder.  “Mom.”_

_Judy looks up from her dinner.  “Yes?”_

_Quinn opens her mouth to speak but the words are stuck again, like they’ve been every time she’s tried to do this since school ended._

_“Quinnie, what is it?”_

_She swallows thickly.  “I need to tell you something.”_

_“Okay,” Judy says, but her tone is too light, too casual; she has no idea what’s coming._

_Quinn wets her lips and takes a slow, deep breath in and out.   Her voice shakes as she says it, and she feels dizzy, like she might throw up, but the words are in the air for the first time and she prays to God that her mom will take them gracefully._

_Judy blinks at her, then puts her fork down and takes a sip of water.  “Oh,” she says finally, and it sounds like she’s working hard to stifle whatever emotions are trying to manifest._

_“Is that…”  Quinn’s mouth is dry.  “Okay?”_

_“Does anyone else know?”_

_She’s barely breathing.  “No.  You’re the first person I’ve told.”_

_Her mom nods slowly.  “Okay.”_

_There’s a heavy silence before Quinn finally summons the nerve to speak again.  “Can you just…”  She wishes her pulse would steady.  “Clarify?  What you’re okay with?”_

_“Quinnie,” Judy begins softly, putting her glass of water down and folding her hands in her lap.  “I already lost you once.”  She meets Quinn’s eyes.  “I don’t plan to lose you again.”_

_Quinn is shaking in her chair.  “So—?”_

_“So, I still love you.”  Judy gives her a small smile.  “We’re okay, Quinn.  You’re okay.”_

_She launches herself at her mom and wraps her arms around her tightly, unable to stop her tears from pouring out.  “Thank you,” she whispers._

_Judy returns her embrace with equal strength._

.

She’s crying even harder now, and she’s terrified she’ll never be able to stuff this wave of emotions back into its box.

.

_There’s a soft knock on her door and she puts down the book she’s reading.  “Come in,” she calls out._

_Judy enters, and her hand doesn’t let go of the doorknob.  “Sweetie, can I talk to you for a moment?”_

_“Yeah,” she says, wondering why her mom’s voice is so strange._

_Judy’s eyes are on the carpet.  “I… just got off the phone with your father.”_

_“You what?”  Quinn sits up a little in her bed.  “Mom, what’s going on?”_

_She finally looks at Quinn.  “I told him.”  Before Quinn can ask her to elaborate, she speaks again.  “What you told me.”_

_Quinn’s mind is going a million miles an hour.  “Why did you do that?” she manages._

_“I—I thought he had the right to know.”_

_“Mom, you **know** how he is!  The whole reason I told you—”_

_“Quinn, please,” she interrupts, her voice way too neutral.  “We discussed the issue”—Quinn’s eyes begin to sting—“And he said… **We** ,” she corrects, “have decided you should see someone.”_

_A tear slides down Quinn’s cheek.  “What are you talking about?”_

_Judy crosses her arms and she isn’t looking Quinn in the eye anymore.  “He gave me the number of an excellent psychologist, one of the best in the state.”_

_“Are you serious?”  Quinn’s voice is barely working.  “I thought…”  She swallows thickly.  “I thought you said it was okay,” she finishes, and her voice cracks._

_“You’re just—”  Judy cuts herself off.  “Everything is going to be fine, Quinnie.  Your father has your best interests in mind.  The sooner we can all move past this, the better.  Okay?”  Her mom’s eyes are glassy as she nods, and she doesn’t wait for Quinn to respond before she leaves and closes the door behind her._

.

Her mom let Russell kick Quinn out of their house, and then she let him force her into a summer’s worth of pointless therapy.  She fucking hates it, that Judy lets herself be controlled by someone who doesn’t even live with them anymore, how she’s so terrified of the man she married that even though they’ve divorced, she still gives him the final word.

She hates her parents, she hates God for deciding that she deserves all of this, and she hates herself for everything she did to piss him off so much.

“Quinn?”

The voice is quiet, but it makes her jump like someone just held a blow horn right to her ear.  She looks up through blurry eyes to see Rachel kneeling in front of her, wearing those stupid dark purple flats and argyle knee socks.  “Leave me alone,” she mutters, but the words don’t sound nearly as authoritative or menacing as she means them to.

Rachel shifts a little and folds her hands neatly in her lap.  “You defended me today.  Don’t I get to help _you_?”

Quinn brings her legs tighter into her chest and squeezes her fingers into even smaller fists.  “I don’t need your help.  I don’t need anybody’s help.”  She’s practically choking on the lump in her throat.  “I just need everyone to leave me alone.”

“Quinn—”

“ _What_?” she half-yells, half-sobs, and she’s trying so hard to get her breathing under control.  “What do you _want_?”

Rachel is silent for a beat as she searches Quinn’s eyes for something.  “Quinn, we both know you’ve been pushing everyone away on purpose.  It’s obvious.  And that doesn’t mean your behavior is excusable, but I _know_ it’s not who you really are.”  She reaches out slowly and places her hand over Quinn’s fist.  “I know, because you just showed me.”

Quinn looks at their hands for a long moment, her own trembling, before lifting her eyes to Rachel’s.  “Please,” she says, her voice cracking as more tears slide down her cheeks.

“Please what?”  Rachel’s eyes are so, so warm.

“ _Go_ ,” she chokes out.

Rachel squeezes again.  “I’m not going anywhere,” she says, brushing her thumb back and forth against the back of Quinn’s hand.

Quinn takes a ragged breath and tries to make the tears stop.  “Why?” she whispers.

“Because that’s what friends do.”

Now Quinn is practically hyperventilating, because this is all wrong.  She isn’t supposed to talk to Rachel or look at Rachel, and Rachel isn’t supposed to touch her or comfort her—and why doesn’t she hate Quinn for what she did?  They aren’t even _close_ to being friends.

“Shhh,” Rachel whispers, “Quinn, you need to breathe.”

She swallows and buries her fingers in her hair and tries to calm her breathing or stop crying, anything to make her seem less weak and more in control.  “Why are you here?” she croaks.

Rachel nibbles her lip for a moment.  “Why do you hang out with the Skanks?”

Her breathing stalls.  “What?”

“Quinn…”   She opens and closes her mouth a few times.  “You’re miserable.”

Quinn pulls her hand away and crosses her arms again, her nostrils flaring even as more tears fall.  “You don’t know anything,” she grits out.

“I know _some_ things,” Rachel says quietly.  “I know you’re in pain.  I-I… I can _see_ it, Quinn.”

She clenches her jaw; her bottom lip is trembling.  “Fuck you,” she manages, but her voice cracks on the curse.

“Is that supposed to hurt me?”

The question feels like a slap to the face, a punch to the gut, because words have gone from being her best weapon against Rachel to being her best defense against Rachel to being absolutely worthless.

What’s she supposed to do now?

“Quinn,” Rachel says softly, “There’s nothing you can say to me that will make me walk away.”

The statement sends a jolt through Quinn’s body and her breathing is getting erratic again, and Rachel tilts her head a little, studying her carefully.

“Why does that upset you so much?”

Because she can’t trust her own parents to love her unconditionally, so why should she trust someone who has three years’ worth of reasons to hate her?

Rachel shifts just a few inches closer and smoothes her skirt, then looks Quinn square in the eye.  “Whatever it is you’re holding in… you can tell me anything,” she says, her words slow and firm.  “No matter what, I won’t judge you.”

Quinn shakes her head, because she’s told two people so far and neither scenario turned out well, and she’s not putting herself through that shit ever again.  But even as she stares determinedly at her lap, she thinks about how Rachel’s the only one who’s asked her what’s wrong, if she’s okay, who hasn’t _stopped_ asking, who’s explicitly promised that she won’t judge.  She’s the one who took lead on “Keep Holding On,” the one who was there after Finn found out Puck was Beth’s father, who followed Quinn to the bathroom at prom and stayed even after the undeserved slap.

Her heart begins to pound, two words slip out.  “Not here.”

It’s so quiet that it’s barely even a whisper, but Rachel seems to hear it perfectly.  “Okay,” she says softly, nodding.  “Would you like to come to my house?”  She must see the panic in Quinn’s eyes, because she adds “My dads are both at work and won’t be home until later.”

Quinn swallows thickly; she can’t make herself say no, and it scares the shit out of her.

“It’ll be safe,” Rachel says, standing up and holding out her hand, “I promise.”

No one’s ever said _that_ before, and maybe that’s why she lets Rachel pull her to her feet.


	6. Chapter 6

She follows Rachel out of the parking lot and through town until they’re pulling into the Berrys driveway, but she doesn’t get out immediately.  She’s got a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, because going inside means talking, _really talking_ , and that kind of thing tends to end badly for her.

Rachel hasn’t moved either, and Quinn wonders if she’s trying to make her feel like she’s not being rushed, and that helps slow her pulse just a little.  Finally she unbuckles her seatbelt, takes her keys out of the ignition, and opens the door.  Rachel follows suit and leads her into the house, and then she’s standing in the Berrys’ foyer for the second time in her life, for an entirely different reason than the first.

“Wait here for one second, okay?” Rachel asks before disappearing into the kitchen.  Quinn hears a refrigerator open and close and when Rachel comes back, she’s holding out an ice pack.  “For your mouth.”

Quinn takes it after a beat and presses it gently to her lip, and the cold feels good.  “Thanks,” she mumbles against the plastic.

Rachel nods a little.  “There’s no one else in the house right now, but we can go upstairs if that would make you more comfortable.”

“Um,” she begins, glancing from the living room to the kitchen to the stairs.  “U-upstairs.  I think.”

Rachel gives her a small smile and says “Okay,” then Quinn follows her up to the second floor and through a door with a large gold star taped to it.  She closes it behind them, and Quinn is grateful for the unnecessary extra privacy within the empty house.

Rachel adjusts the pillows on her bed and sits on the mattress with her back to them, and when she sees that Quinn is still lingering by the door, she pats the spot next to her.  “Come sit?” she asks softly.

Quinn takes a deep breath and walks around to the other side of the bed.  She takes a seat and immediately brings her knees to her chest, staring hard at the design on Rachel’s quilt until the colors all run together.

“Is that helping?”

She adjusts the ice pack a bit.  “Yeah.”

Rachel nods in her peripheral vision, and now she’s fidgeting with the corner of one of her pillows.  “What’s been going on? She asks softly.

“It’s complicated,” Quinn says after a beat, and her hands are already trembling just a little.

“Try me.”

Her throat is thick and her eyes are starting to burn.  “Rachel, it’s…” she begins, but her mind goes blank; she doesn’t even know where to begin.

“It’s what?”

“I don’t _know_ , okay?” Quinn snaps, her grip on the ice pack tightening.  “It’s a fucking…”  She clenches her jaw.  “It’s a fucking mess, and I don’t…”  Quinn loses the words again and tilts her head back against the headboard, trying to keep the tears from pushing through.  Rachel says nothing, apparently waiting for her to continue.  “There’s something—I’ve only told two people, and they both…”  The lump in her throat is growing bigger by the second.

Rachel shifts a little so she’s facing her more directly.  “Quinn, whatever’s happened in the past, I promise I won’t—”  She pauses when a tear rolls down Quinn’s cheek, and when she speaks again, her voice is impossibly gentle.  “What’s wrong?”

It’s stuck in her throat, on the back of her tongue, on the roof of her mouth, behind her teeth; it rattles around with every breath she takes, and she can’t tell if it’s fighting desperately to stay in or slip out.  She wants so badly to trust Rachel, but what if this is some wildly elaborate scheme to humiliate Quinn, to finally get revenge for all the shit she’s put Rachel through?

But then she forces herself to meet Rachel’s eyes, and they’re so warm and genuine and honest that for a single moment, Quinn forgets about her racing heart and trembling hands and then the words are in the air.  “I’m gay,” she whispers, and her voice cracks; then the moment is over and she realizes what she’s done, what she’s said, and her world turns completely blurry.  Her cheeks are wet again and she sets the ice pack down and wipes away the moisture with her sleeve, and her attempted deep breath is shaky and shallow.

Rachel blinks at her.  “Oh,” she says lightly, like she’s surprised and trying not to show it.

Quinn stiffens and immediately moves to get off the bed, because she _knew_ this was an awful idea and she _knew_ she couldn’t trust anybody and she—

“No no no, it’s okay!” Rachel insists, putting her hand over Quinn’s to hold it there.  “Please, I just—I didn’t mean… It’s _okay_ ,” she finishes finally, and her tone is steady and sincere.

Quinn hesitates, because _“Okay”_ is something she’s heard before only to have it yanked from under her feet, and she’s not sure she’d survive it again.

“It’s really not—”  Rachel is still searching for the right thing to say.  “I’m a Sagittarius!” is what she comes up with a moment later, and Quinn raises a confused and wary eyebrow at her.  “What?  You shared something completely normal about yourself.  I reciprocated.”

Quinn shakes her head slowly, because normal things don’t rot in the pit of your stomach or burn holes in your throat or make you feel like you’re constantly walking through wet cement.

“I’m sorry if I offended you, o-or said the wrong thing.  I didn’t mean to.”  Rachel hasn’t let go of Quinn’s hand.  “Please stay?”

Her lip aches dully as she thinks about what it might be like to walk out the door right now, to go home and pretend like this afternoon never happened, to go back to school tomorrow and keep treating Rachel like she doesn’t exist.  Then she thinks about staying here, about talking and being listened to, and about the way Rachel’s hand feels on hers—how she not only hasn’t left Quinn, but she won’t let Quinn leave _her_.

She slowly pulls away and she can see Rachel trying not to look upset, but then Quinn grabs the ice pack again and sits back on the bed, staring at her knees.  “I told my mom,” she says quietly.

Rachel snaps back to attention.  “Was she upset?”

“No,” Quinn replies, shaking her head as angry tears fill her eyes.  “She said she still loved me, and we were okay.”

Rachel frowns.  “But… that’s _great_.  I thought you said—”

“Then she called my dad,” Quinn interrupts, “and told _him_.  And he…”  Her throat is closing up again as she wipes away a tear, and she nearly jumps out of her skin when Rachel’s hand covers her own again, her thumb brushing against Quinn’s knuckles.  “He said it’s a phase.  That it’s not how God made me, that I’ll go to hell if I—”  Her voice cracks and she clears her throat.  “My mom’s the one who talked to him, but it’s easy enough to guess.”

“What did she do?”

“She agreed with him.”  Rachel’s hand is so warm and steady against hers, and she really wishes she could stop crying.  “She agreed that it’s a phase, and then she agreed that I should talk to a shrink.”

Rachel’s grip tightens a little.  “Quinn… I’m so sorry.”

She just sniffs and wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

“What about the Skanks?” Rachel asks suddenly, like she’s just remembered this is the question she’s had for weeks.

Quinn runs her tongue lightly over the cut on her lip.  “My parents think I’m going through a phase; that I’m just being rebellious.  And I figured if that’s what they really want, I might as well give it to them.  I just changed the way I look, showed the Skanks how angry I was… they loved it.  It was easy.”

“But,” Rachel interjects quietly, “I’ve seen you with them.  It’s not easy anymore.”

Rachel’s words are heavy in the pit of her stomach, and Quinn doesn’t respond.

“So why do you stay?”

Quinn swallows thickly.  “The thing about being a Skank,” she says, then clenches her jaw for a moment, “is you have to tell them something you hate about yourself.”

The room seems to go completely silent as Rachel processes the words.  “So you… Quinn, are they holding that over you?”

Quinn says nothing as the question crashes through her head like a bullet.

“That’s… that’s _abominable_ ,” Rachel gasps, sounding horrified and a little bit close to tears herself.  “Why would you—” she begins, but then pauses to steady her voice.  “Why didn’t you talk to anyone in glee club?”

“No,” Quinn says, shaking her head, even though she knows that doesn’t answer the question.

“Quinn—”

She shakes her head harder.  “No, I just—I can’t,” she chokes out, and her eyes are wet again.

“Why?”

“What, should I just add it to the list?” she snaps.  “Quinn cheated on her boyfriend, Quinn had sex before marriage, Quinn got pregnant at seventeen, Quinn was disowned by her parents, and now Quinn isn’t straight.”  Her breaths are escalating to sobs.  “God, that Quinn is such a _fuck_ -up, isn’t she?”

“No,” Rachel replies firmly, “She’s not.”

Quinn would argue if she could stop crying.

“Everyone makes mistakes, Quinn.  We mess up, we feel awful, we apologize, and we forgive each other.”  Rachel’s hand is on her shoulder now.  “Your sexuality isn’t one of those mistakes.  You haven’t done anything wrong—you’ve just discovered a new piece of who you are.”

“I don’t _want_ it,” she bursts, “I just want to be _normal_.  Why can’t I just be…”  Quinn completely dissolves as Rachel’s arm goes around her shoulders, maybe in an effort to make them stop shaking as she cries, and her body is flooded with warmth.  She feels anchored, _protected_ , and suddenly very tired, and though she fights herself every step of the way, she eventually lets her head fall into the crook of Rachel’s neck.

Rachel’s hold on her tightens automatically and Quinn’s mind goes to the last time someone held her like this—her mom, right after Quinn came out—and now she’s hyperventilating against Rachel’s shirt.

“Shhhhh, breathe,” Rachel whispers into her ear.

Quinn just lets out another sob.  “She said it was okay,” she croaks, her hand curling into a fist in her lap.  She flinches again when Rachel’s covers it a third time.

“I know,” Rachel murmurs as her thumb brushes back and forth along the back of Quinn’s palm.  “I know she betrayed you, and I know your dad is cruel, and I know the Skanks aren’t much better.  But Quinn…”

She’s pretty sure her heart stops beating.

“I know who you are,” Rachel says softly, “and I accept you.  _All_ of you.  Every single part.”

Quinn shatters under the weight of Rachel’s words, these things she’d given up hoping for a long time ago because she was so sure they were impossible.  She curls in on herself and her head ends up in Rachel’s lap, and she feels bad that she’s crying all over Rachel’s skirt, but then she remembers the clothes in the sink and she wants to scream.  “I’m sorry,” she sobs instead, glad that she doesn’t have to look at Rachel as she says it.

“Quinn, you don’t have to apologize—”

“I’ve been a monster to you,” she chokes out, “I’ve been so—”

“I forgive you,” Rachel replies without hesitation, and Quinn is gone.

She cries so hard that she almost feels sick, but then Rachel is rubbing her back gently and it gets just a little bit easier to breathe.  It seems to take an eternity, but eventually her lungs calm and her tears slow, and by the time she realizes her eyes are still closed, she doesn’t have the energy to open them.

.

When Quinn wakes up the room is significantly darker, and she’s about to nuzzle deeper into her pillow before she realizes that one, it’s not her room, and two, the pillow she’s using isn’t a pillow.  She sits up a little and finds Rachel fast asleep, her hand slipping from Quinn’s lower back as Quinn shifts.  She swallows hard and slowly gets off the bed, her heart hammering, because she’s told Rachel everything and fallen asleep in her bed and she has no fucking clue where to go from here.

So she does the easiest thing—and probably the worst thing—and leaves.  She opens and closes the door as quietly as possible and slips out of the house, wincing at the noise as she starts her car and pulls out of the driveway.

The entire way home her mind bounces back and forth between The Mack’s smirks and Rachel’s warm eyes, The Mack’s cigarettes and Rachel’s gentle hands, and by the time she opens the front door she’s confused and frustrated and ready to slam her head against the wall.

“Where have you been?” her mom asks, her tone not at all pleased.

Quinn continues taking off her boots without turning around.  “Out.”

 “Now is not the time to be fresh with me.  Principal Figgins called and said you missed your detention.  Where were you?”

She takes her time placing her boots next to the door and looks her mom in the eye.  “None of your fucking business,” she says as she passes Judy once to grab leftover pizza from the fridge, then again to go back up to her room, and Judy does nothing except stand there with her arms crossed over her chest.

When Quinn gets to the top stair she pauses; she thinks about turning around, about getting in her mom’s face and making her understand exactly why she chose the Skanks, why she’s so angry, how much her mom hurt her.  But then she glances back down and Judy is already gone, and she clenches her jaw and slams her bedroom door behind her.

Quinn sits on the edge of her bed and slowly leans over, curling up on her side, and takes out her phone.  After a long moment of staring at the screen, she finally begins to type.

**Thank you.**

She hesitates before hitting “send,” because maybe Rachel is mad that she left without saying anything, but she makes herself press the button and pretends to not be relieved when she gets an immediate response.

**Thank you for talking to me.  I know it couldn’t have been easy.**

Quinn runs her tongue over the cut on her lip and reads the message over and over again until the screen goes dark, but then it vibrates and Rachel’s name pops up a second time.

**You’re really brave, Quinn.**

She rolls onto her back and tries to blink away the moisture in her eyes, wondering what The Mack is going to do to her when Sheila tells her what happened, wondering what Rachel will expect of her now that Quinn has s pilled her guts.

Wondering how she could possibly be considered brave when all she ever does is run away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have work at 8am tomorrow and probably should've gone to bed an hour ago but fuck that shit here's a new chapter.

If Quinn thought she felt lost before, that’s nothing compared to now as she sits in her car in the WMHS parking lot.  A part of her is convinced that, just by looking at her, the Skanks will know she talked to Rachel—that there’s something different about the way she walks or talks or _breathes_ and they’ll figure it out and everything will go to shit even worse than it already has.

She glances in her reflection in the rearview mirror: pink hair, nose ring, too much eyeliner… everything’s the same as it was yesterday.

So why are her hands shaking so badly?

(She’s really not liking this new trend of being afraid to get out of her car.)

After a few more minutes she finally heads into the building and straight to Principal Figgins’s office, because if she’s going to get shit from someone first thing in the morning, she’d rather it be him than The Mack. 

She finds him alone in his office and knocks on the door frame, and he looks up from his desk.  “Miss Fabray,” he says sternly, “You missed your detention yesterday.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.”  Quinn’s tone is quiet and honest, because she doesn’t really see the point in fighting this particular battle, and Figgins looks almost surprised that she’s not giving him more attitude.

He studies her for another moment before nodding.  “Make it up this afternoon or there will be further disciplinary action.”

She nods once and leaves before he can get another word in, heading to her locker so she can make up her mind about which classes she’s going to today.  She takes her time twisting the combination and opens the door slowly; this is one of the few things in her day that’s absolutely meaningless and doesn’t involve The Mack looming over her shoulder, making sure she’s not disgracing the Skanks’ name.

But then there’s footsteps and sudden presence behind her, and Quinn clenches her jaw, because apparently she spoke too soon.

“Can I help you?” she mutters without turning around.

There’s a beat of hesitation before she hears a small “Hi,” and it’s Rachel’s voice.

Quinn’s heart skips a beat and she freezes, torn between ignoring Rachel or acknowledging her and then walking away or maybe even having a conversation with her—

“Hi,” she finally manages, if just for the sake of making her brain shut up, and when she risks a brief glance behind her, Rachel beams.

“How are you?”

The question is so ordinary and yet the way Rachel asks it is anything but, and all Quinn can really do is shrug because she has no idea where to even begin.  “I don’t know.  Just—”  She looks up again and sees Ronnie trying to pick the lock on the janitor’s closet down the hall.  “I have to go,” she mumbles and closes her locker, then heads toward Ronnie and prays that Rachel is going in the opposite direction.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just steal the keys?” Quinn asks, leaning against a locker a few feet away from Ronnie.

She continues jiggling a bobby pin around in the lock for a moment, but then slowly dissolves into laughter.

Quinn crosses her arms.  “What the fuck is so funny?”

Ronnie shakes her head and finally looks up at her.  “You’re giving me advice on the easiest way to do something, but you’re the one always making shit harder for yourself.”  She gives the bobby pin a final twist and the lock clicks open.  “Mack knows about your fight with Sheila.”

“How did she—?” Quinn starts, but then takes a deep breath.  “What does that mean?” she asks quietly.  “Is she—?”

Ronnie ignores her, opening the door and ducking inside, and Quinn can hear her digging around.

“Ronnie,” she tries again, moving to follow her through the doorway, “What are you saying?”  Quinn stops short when Ronnie appears in the doorway again, blocking her way.

“I’m saying,” she says pointedly, “She knows.”

Quinn can feel her composure slipping as dread seeps into her veins.

“Just fucking watch out, okay?” Ronnie finishes before closing the door in her face.

She chews her bottom lip, wincing a bit as she remembers the small scab and bruise there, and looks back down the hallway, wishing she weren’t disappointed that Rachel is nowhere to be seen.

.

Quinn ends up in the back of her calculus classroom trying to drown out Ronnie’s voice in her head with the equations on the page in front of her, but even the neutral logic of numbers can’t calm her down.  She hates that she fucked things up with Sheila and The Mack, hates that the situation is bad enough for Ronnie to feel the need to give her a heads up… and even kind of hates that she left Rachel in the dust again, after everything she did for Quinn yesterday afternoon.

The teacher turns her back to write something on the board and Quinn gets her phone out of her bag, opening a new message and then staring hard at the screen.  She’s not even quite sure what she wants to say; should she just apologize, should she explain what she’s apologizing for, should she say something completely unrelated and pretend nothing happened?

She quickly covers her phone with her notebook when the teacher faces the class again for a moment, and then finally types the simplest thing she can think of.

**I’m sorry.**

Quinn hits “send” and suddenly the screen is showing her previous texts with Rachel; the words “ **You’re really brave, Quinn** ” stare back at her, bold and confident.

She rolls her eyes at herself, flips the phone over so it’s face-down on the desk, and goes back to her math notes.

.

Rachel hasn’t responded to her text by the end of class, but she tries not to dwell on it because Rachel’s in-school priorities are probably glee club and not getting slushied, rather than promptly replying to stupid messages from shitty people.

Whatever.  She’ll survive.

Someone grabs her arm as she’s walking down the hallway, and a “What the _fuck_ ” is halfway off her tongue when she whips around she sees it’s Santana.

“Why the _hell_ did Sister Skank just come after Britt?” she demands, her jaw visibly clenching, and she hasn’t looked at Quinn with this much venom since their Cheerio days.

(Hell, she hasn’t really looked at Quinn at _all_ since they got back from Nationals.)

Quinn arches an eyebrow.  “What are you talking about?”  She tries to pull her arm free from Santana’s grip, but Santana just squeezes harder.

“She tried to yank her ponytail off her head—B almost fell down the stairs.  You know anything about that?”

“Santana, I have _no_ idea—”

“No idea, huh?”  Santana laughs under her breath, shaking her head and still glaring.  “Look, I get that you’re having a midlife crisis at eighteen, and I’ll support you if you want to dress like Joan Jett had a baby with a troll doll.  But if this bullshit gets anywhere near Brittany again?”  Santana releases Quinn’s arm.  “We’re gonna have a problem.”  She turns on her heel and storms away, and all Quinn can do for a moment is stand there and blink at Santana’s retreating form.

It’s amazing, how she can disappoint everyone in her life without even trying.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket; she swallows thickly and glances at the screen.  It’s Rachel.

**I’m not mad at you.**

(With one exception, apparently.)

.

Quinn ends up going to all of her classes, because her only other options would be the bleachers or the auditorium; if she gets anywhere near the former she’d probably be lucky to escape with her life, and God knows what would happen if she set foot in the latter, so she stays away from both.

When she walks into English she once again heads directly to the back of the room, and she almost trips over her own boots when she sees Rachel sitting in the very last row.  She’s resting her cheek in her hand and her eyes are pointed down at her desk, and she doesn’t look up when Quinn takes the seat next to her.

Quinn doesn’t say anything, just pulls out her notebook and flips to the next empty page, but then she can’t help glancing at Rachel again.  She’s clearly less than thrilled about something and there’s this awful feeling in the pit of Quinn’s stomach, like she needs to know what’s wrong—

She looks away, chewing the inside of her cheek as she scribbles a pattern on her notebook page.  It’s really none of her business, and what does she even know about… what makes her think she could…

_Fuck it._

Her eyes drift to Rachel again, and then she writes out a note.

**You okay?**

Quinn stares straight ahead until their teacher turns his back, then reaches out and puts the piece of paper on Rachel’s desk as quickly as she can.  She watches Rachel’s eyes drop to the note, and suddenly Rachel is looking at _her_.

 _Long day_ , she mouths, and Quinn nearly chokes on her own spit.

She looks at the new blank sheet in front of her and tries to think of something more to say, because “Long day” is definitely the kind of response that warrants further questions, but she’s at a loss for where to go from here.  Why did she even try this in the first place?

She spends the rest of class trying to figure out what to say, and by the time the bell rings she’s frustrated with herself beyond belief.  Quinn follows her out of the room and begins to take a left, toward her own locker; but then she remembers Ronnie’s warning and Santana’s anger, how much she’s fucked up over the past few weeks, and decides, once again, to fuck it.

Quinn turns around and heads in the other direction, to Rachel’s locker, and silently walks up to her as she twists her combination.  She stops a few feet away and waits for Rachel to notice her, but then she’s focused on digging through her bag, and finally Quinn forces herself to speak.

“Hey.”

Rachel looks up immediately and her eyes widen just a little.  “Hi, Quinn,” she replies with a smile.

“I’m sorry I, um—about the—”  She takes a breath and lets it out sharply.  “You said you’re having a long day.”

Rachel seems almost amused by how hard it is for Quinn to string sentences together right now, but then her face falls again and she just looks tired.  “It’s stupid, really,” she begins, searching for something in her locker.  “Just… Finn’s being…”

“A moron?” Quinn guesses before she can stop herself, and she feels terrible for not biting her tongue until she sees the corner of Rachel’s mouth twitch.

“He, um…”  Rachel hesitates, like she’s trying to choose exactly the right words.  “He just doesn’t understand a lot of things.  Things that are important to me.”  She gets lost in thought for a moment before snapping out of it.  “And then that whole fiasco with Brittany and The Mack from earlier… Santana is livid and I doubt she’ll be in a civil mood by glee club, which means rehearsals for the new set list will be tumultuous at best…”

Quinn hasn’t heard anything past “Brittany and The Mack”.  A part of her assumed that Sheila was the one who messed with her, assumed it was just some odd, random _thing_ Sheila decided to do today.

But no.  It was The Mack, and that changes everything.

“Are you okay?  I-I’m sorry if glee club is a sensitive topic for you; I shouldn’t have brought it up—”

“No,” Quinn says when she finds her voice again.  “It’s not—I have to, um, go,” she finishes, wondering when she lost her eloquence, but she doesn’t walk away yet; she wants Rachel to understand that she’s not running away, that this time is different.  “Like, to detention.”  She points her thumb over her shoulder, down the hall.  “I have to go to detention.”

The bell rings, as if to back up her explanation, and Rachel nods.

“O-okay.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Quinn isn’t sure if she at all acknowledges Rachel’s statement, but as she turns to leave, she hears her voice again.

“Thank you,” Rachel says, and Quinn stops in her tracks.  “For—thank you.”

Quinn swallows hard.  “Yeah,” she mumbles and finally starts making her way to the detention room.  When she gets there it’s nearly empty, just a handful of people scattered around the back rows, and she slumps into a seat in the corner.  She rubs her eyes and buries her fingers in her hair and tries to stop her brain from vividly imagining what might’ve gone down in the parking lot, but the images won’t quit and she can feel a headache lurking in the distance.

“Quinn Fabray in detention?  Now I _know_ you’ve gone off the deep end.”

She opens her eyes just in time to see Puck take a seat at the desk next to hers.

“What’d you do, anyways?”

“Got into a fight,” she says quietly, tracing her fingernail along a vulgar carving in the desktop.

Puck snorts.  “Santana piss you off again?”

Quinn swallows hard and her finger stalls for a moment.  “It wasn’t with Santana.”

“What happened?”

“Not that I don’t appreciate a good game of Twenty Questions, but I kind of miss the old days when all you did was hit on me.”  She means for her words to sound cold and biting, but they’re mostly just tired.

He’s looking at her carefully now.  “What’s up with you?”

Quinn rolls her eyes.  “Puck…”

“No, I’m serious.  You seem different.  Like, different than _this_ different,” he continues, nodding at her outfit.

“I’m _really_ not in the mood—”

“How ‘bout you leave the poor girl alone,” interrupts a familiar voice, one that she hasn’t heard all day, and she swears her heart stops beating.

The Mack is sitting two desks in front of her, backwards in her seat so she’s facing Quinn, and there’s a terrifying smirk on her face.

“How about you take a freaking shower?” Puck replies without missing a beat.

She cocks her head to the side a bit.  “Quinn, are you really gonna let him talk to me like that?”

Puck is glaring at The Mack now.  “After what you did to Brittany today, I’ll talk to you however I want.”

“But see, I don’t think that’s fair,” she says thoughtfully.  “Because yesterday, someone hit _my_ friend,” she continues, glancing at Quinn, “and it really upset me, because I care about her a lot, you know?”  The Mack puts her hand on her chest dramatically and Quinn has to fight off another eye roll.  “You can hate me all you want, but all I did was hit back.”  She looks at Quinn again.  “What d’you think, kiddo?  Doesn’t that make sense?”

Quinn clenches her jaw hard and keeps her eyes on her desk.

“What the hell is she talking about?” Puck demands, and The Mack’s smile dares her to explain _exactly_ what she’s talking about.

Quinn is silent for a long moment, then wets her lips.  “Back off, Puck,” she mutters without looking up.

“Are you serious?”

She doesn’t say anything else, just tries really hard to evaporate or get sucked into a black hole or something, and she flinches a little when Puck shoves out of his chair.

“Yeah, you’re _real_ different,” he growls, standing up and moving to the other side of the room.

The Mack shakes her head.  “What an asshole,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcastic sympathy, and she places her hand over Quinn’s on the desk and squeezes.

Quinn pulls back and folds her arms tightly over her chest.

“Oh, shit,” The Mack whispers, glancing around the room.  “I shouldn’t have done that in the middle of a classroom.  You wouldn’t want anyone to see something like that.”  She winks.  “I got your back.”

She finally turns around and faces the front of the room, and Quinn’s eyes start to burn.  Quinn grabs her phone and scrolls through the inbox until **_You’re really brave, Quinn_** fills the screen, then reads the message again and again until the words start to lose their meaning.

Her thumb hovers over the “erase” button more than once, but she can never quite bring herself to press it.


	8. Chapter 8

When Quinn gets home she hears the TV in the living room and hopes Judy will be too absorbed in her show to talk to her, but she doesn’t even make it to the kitchen.

“Quinn, can you come here for a moment?”

She rolls her eyes and doubles back, then leans against the doorframe and waits for her mom to speak again.

Judy turns off whatever she’s watching and clasps her hands in her lap.  “We haven’t had a chance to discuss why you were in detention in the first place.”

Quinn shrugs.  “We talked about it a little bit.  You asked me if it was because of that _thing_ , and I hung up on you.”

“Quinnie, I—”  She closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath.  “Why were you in detention?”

She runs her tongue along the healing cut on her lip.  “I got in a fight.”

“With whom?”

“Sheila.”

“Who’s Sheila?”

“A friend,” Quinn answers automatically, even though the word feels wrong in her mouth.

Her mom frowns.  “If she’s your friend, then why were you fighting?”

Quinn rolls her eyes again.  “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does.”

She clenches her jaw for a moment.  “She did something that pissed me off.”

“What did she do?” Judy asks, her frown deepening.

Quinn’s heart starts to beat just a little faster.  “She was being an asshole, okay?  I have to go do homework.”

“Your homework can wait a few more minutes, Quinn.”  Judy’s looking at her carefully now.  “Why are you so reluctant to tell me what happened?”

She can’t hold in a soft laugh.  “I don’t know.  Maybe because whenever I confide in you, things tend to go to shit?”

Something in her mom’s face changes.  “So it _was_ about that,” she says quietly, her tone laced with accusation.

“For the love of _God_ ,” Quinn snaps, “It’s because she was bullying someone.”

Now Judy just looks confused, and Quinn can see the next question forming on her lips; Quinn cuts her off before she can say anything.

“I have homework,” she mutters before finally leaving to the kitchen; she grabs a box of leftover Chinese food from the fridge and a fork from the silverware drawer, and when she walks by the living room again to get to the stairs, the TV is back on.

.

It doesn’t take her as long to get out of the car the next morning, but she keeps her eyes peeled for the Skanks anyways—something that’s become second nature at this point.  She’s not even sure what she’d do if she saw Sheila or The Mack… try to fix things?  Run in the other direction?

And Ronnie… well, Ronnie’s a different story.  But God knows where her loyalties really lie, or why she talked to Quinn yesterday, and Quinn’s hesitant to trust her just yet.

She turns the corner and sees Brittany at a water fountain, and before she can overthink it, she heads toward her.

“Hey.”

Brittany straightens and wipes her mouth.  “Hey.”

Her voice lodges in her throat for a moment.  “I’m sorry about what happened yesterday,” she manages, trying really hard to look her in the eye as the words come out.

Brittany looks confused.  “You mean your new friend pulling my hair?  But you didn’t do anything, you weren’t even there.”

“I know I wasn’t, but—”

“Speaking of which,” Brittany interrupts, “I don’t really understand why you’re friends with her.  She’s a bitch.”  Quinn opens her mouth to say something but Brittany cuts her off again.  “And she smells like Lord Tubbington’s litter box if I don’t clean it for a few days.”

Quinn swallows hard.  “I’ll keep that in mind, B,” she says quietly.

“Good morning, Q,” Santana greets from behind, her tone overly pleasant, and then she’s standing between Quinn and Brittany with her arms crossed.  “Is there something I can help you with?”

Quinn clenches her jaw.  “No,” she mutters, “I’m all set.”  When she turns and walks away she sees Rachel at her locker, staring determinedly at her books, which leads Quinn to believe she heard—or at least saw—everything.

She goes to her own locker across the hall, and as she twirls her combination and grabs the notebooks she needs, she wonders if she should say something to Rachel.  _Good morning, has your boyfriend been a douchebag yet today?_   Or would it be rude to ask about Finn?  Should she just improvise?

Quinn rolls her eyes at herself as she closes the door, and when she turns around, she bumps right into Rachel.

“Sorry,” they blurt at the same time.

“I just wanted to—” Rachel starts as Quinn says “I was just about to—” and they both stop in midsentence and wait for the other to speak again.

“You go first,” Rachel insists.

Quinn opens and closes her mouth a few times, trying to come up with any words at all.  “Uh, I—how… are you?” she finally asks, frowning a little at her inability to speak intelligently.

“Fine, I suppose,” Rachel replies with a shrug.  “I didn’t hear from Finn all night, but that actually allowed me more time to prepare for this afternoon’s rehearsals, so.”  She tucks her hair behind her ear.  “What about you?”

Quinn glances down the hall; Brittany and Santana have disappeared.  “I’m fine.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Rachel begins after a beat, her tone cautious, “What’s going on?  With you and Santana and Brittany?”

Quinn bites her lip.  “Um—”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Rachel interrupts, “I just wasn’t sure if you needed someone to—I-it’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  “What The Mack did to Brittany… it’s my fault.”

Rachel frowns.  “No, it’s not.”

“It only happened because I got into that fight with Sheila.”

“You couldn’t have known she’d retaliate—”

“I should’ve.”

Rachel just looks at her for a moment.  “Well, then maybe it’s really _my_ fault.  I could have stood up for myself, or at the very least, chosen a more discrete location for—”

“But that’s stupid,” Quinn argues, shaking her head.  “You can’t blame yourself for—for somebody forcing you to—”  Her brain gets to the end of the sentence before her mouth does, and she stops.

“Then maybe,” Rachel says, “it’s neither of our faults.  And maybe The Mack is just a terrible person, and maybe it’s easier for Santana to take her anger out on you than on the one who actually deserves it.”

“Yeah,” Quinn mumbles, “Maybe.”

Rachel fidgets with the spiral binding of one of her notebooks.  “So, have you started the English paper yet?”

Quinn nearly sighs in relief at the change of subject.  “It’s due Monday, right?  I’ll probably just write it this weekend.”

“Did you pick a topic yet?”

She shrugs.  “I have a few in mind.  I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

“Good luck,” Rachel replies with probably a little more enthusiasm than necessary.

“Thanks.”  Quinn wets her lips.  “You too.  And with the Finn stuff.”

Rachel nods and gives her a small smile.  “Thank you.”

The bell rings and they both flinch at the sudden noise.

“See you later,” Quinn says, turning to head to her French class.

“See you later,” Rachel echoes, and it sounds like a promise.

.

After dinner Quinn takes out _The Metamorphosis_ and opens a blank Word document.  She _was_ planning to leave it for this weekend, but ideas have been floating back and forth in her head since Rachel asked her about it, so she figures she might as well just write the thing.

A few hours later she’s about halfway through the paper, and as she’s looking for a quote to use, the doorbell rings.  Quinn skims another paragraph, but then she gets curious; who would be showing up at their house on at this time of night?

She opens her bedroom door and listens but can’t make out what’s being said, so she walks down a few stairs until she can see down to the foyer.

“—friend from school.  I-I know it’s late, but I was wondering if I could—”

“You’re right, it _is_ late.”

Rachel is standing on their front steps, an overnight bag hanging on her shoulder, and even though she’s trying her best to smile politely at Judy, it looks like she’s been crying.

Quinn takes the rest of the stairs as fast as she can.  “I got it, Mom.”

Judy doesn’t move from her spot and her hand still has a firm grip on the doorknob.  “Quinn—”

“I _got_ it,” she says again, staring Judy down, and her mom finally backs off and retreats to the living room.  Quinn turns to Rachel.  “Sorry,” she mutters.

Rachel shakes her head.  “No, it’s okay.  It was rude of me to show up unannounced.”  Her eyes are glassy and her throat is thick, and she ends her sentence with a sniff.

“Rachel,” Quinn begins quietly, “What’s wrong?”

She folds her arms over her chest.  “Finn and I broke up.”

Quinn blinks.  “What?”

“Finn and I broke up a few hours ago, and my dads are away for a few days, and I typically go to Kurt’s house when things like this happen, but unfortunately Kurt’s house is now also Finn’s house, and I—”

Quinn steps aside and opens the door wider, giving Rachel room to step inside, and Rachel wipes away a tear.

“Thank you,” she mumbles.

Quinn nibbles her lip.  “Um.  My room is upstairs, if…”

Rachel nods, but she looks nervous.  “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Come on,” Quinn says, gesturing for Rachel to follow her up to the second floor, and once they’re in her room she closes the door behind them.  Suddenly she kind of hates her unmade bed and the clothes all over the floor, but then she glances back at Rachel and all other thoughts vanish.  “Do you, uh, want to sit?” she asks, propping the pillows against her headboard like Rachel did in her own room.

Rachel nods again and sets herself carefully onto the mattress, smoothing her skirt and once again folding her arms tightly over her chest.

Quinn takes a seat next to her, but doesn’t say anything right away.  This is different than passing a note in class; Rachel is right here in Quinn’s bedroom, and it’s just the two of them.  No prying eyes or ears, least of all from the Skanks.

This is between her and Rachel.

“What happened?” she asks softly.

Rachel takes a deep breath to steady herself.  “He said he’d help me practice my solo after school today, but then he cancelled because Burt asked him for help with something in the garage.  And then Kurt called me and said they were watching a football game.”  She sniffs and wipes her eyes again.  “So I called Finn and asked him what was going on, and he admitted that he blew me off.  He said I’m already great and I shouldn’t need to practice so much.”

She looks at Quinn now.  “I don’t think he understands how hard I work for everything.  He thinks I just wake up in the morning and my voice naturally sounds the way it does.  A-and I _told_ him—I tried to explain that it takes effort, and motivation, and—”  Rachel sighs.  “He said I put more effort into my singing than I do into our relationship,” she continues, biting her lip for a moment.  “Which is true.  The workouts and the rehearsals and the singing lessons are all my top priority, because that’s my future.”  She pauses and tucks her hair behind her ear.  “And he concluded that our relationship isn’t.”

Rachel’s voice cracks on the last word and Quinn’s hand is suddenly rubbing gentle circles on Rachel’s back; her heart nearly seizes, because she definitely shouldn’t be doing this, but then she feels Rachel’s shoulders relax just a little and something tightens in her chest.

“It basically spiraled into an argument about our futures.”  Rachel swallows thickly and takes another deep, shaky breath.  “He said that _I’m_ his future.  And I think a few months ago I would’ve thought that was incredibly sweet, but now…”  Her eyes are filled with tears again.  “I can’t be his future.  I can’t be the only thing that matters to him.”  Now her bottom lip is trembling.  “I know it’s selfish, but—”

“It’s not,” Quinn interrupts, and Rachel’s eyes snap to hers again.  “It’s not selfish,” she repeats.  “It’s never been selfish.”

Rachel’s gaze drops.  “That’s not what he seems to think,” she mumbles.

“Well, fuck him.”  Quinn says it before she can stop herself, and her hand pauses on Rachel’s back.  “Sorry.”

Rachel shrugs a little.  “I kind of agree,” she says with a sniff.  “But the thing I feel the worst about is—it’s not even—”  Both of her cheeks are wet now.  “I’m really afraid this is going to hurt glee club,” she chokes out.  “He and I are supposed to be the leaders.  This might change our performance chemistry, and we might have to modify the set list, and the _last_ thing I want to do is add stress to already high-stakes circumstances…”

Quinn stops rubbing Rachel’s back and instead wraps her arm firmly around her shoulders; Rachel’s head falls into the crook of Quinn’s neck and she feels a jolt in her stomach.

“I don’t want to ruin everything,” Rachel whispers thickly.

“Rach, you’re not—”  Quinn stops herself for a moment, because she’s not sure where the “Rach” came from.  “You’re not gonna ruin everything.  Hell, it’s probably _better_ if you’re focused on glee than if you’re distracted and stressed out because your boyfriend is being an asshole.”  She winces.  “Jerk.  Sorry.”

Rachel shrugs again.  “You can call him an asshole if you want.”

The curse sounds strange in Rachel’s voice and Quinn has to stifle a smile.

“There were moments when I really thought he was the one,” Rachel mumbles.  “I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.  He let you down.”

Rachel wipes her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.  “You’re not sugarcoating this for me, are you?  Because I can handle criticism.”

Quinn laughs softly before she can stop herself. "When have you ever known me to sugarcoat anything?"

She thinks she hears the tiniest laugh escape from Rachel’s throat, but Rachel doesn’t reply; instead leans away for a moment so she can look at Quinn.  “I think I might cry a bit more,” she announces, sounding matter-of-fact even as her voice wobbles.

“Cry as much as you need to,” Quinn says gently, and her reply, this almost surreal role reversal, sends a shock through her system.

Rachel nods, then once again leans against her and even nuzzles Quinn’s shoulder just a little as she slowly dissolves back into tears.

The sounds of her shuddering lungs make Quinn’s insides ache; she wraps her arm tightly around Rachel, ignoring how quickly her pulse is pounding.  “It’ll be fine,” she says quietly.  “You don’t need him.  You’ll be fine.”

Rachel nods again but doesn’t stop crying, and Quinn watches her own hand reach out and tuck a lock of hair behind Rachel’s ear; Rachel’s eyes droop closed at the gesture, and Quinn might not be breathing anymore.

“So, you’re staying over?” Quinn blurts.

Rachel’s eyes snap open.  “I, um—I-I brought a bag just in case, but I don’t have to—”

“Hey,” she interrupts softly, “It’s fine.  I’ll get some extra blankets.”  Quinn lets her go and waits for Rachel to sit up before getting off the bed and going down the hall to the linen closet.  She grabs a quilt and an afghan and brings them back to her room, where Rachel is digging through her bag.  “Let me know if you need more than this,” she says, setting them in a pile next to her bed.

“Thank you,” Rachel replies quietly.  “Could you point me toward your bathroom?”

“Down the hall on the left.”

She vanishes and Quinn lays back against her mattress, pushing her hair back from her face.  Rachel came to _her_ for comfort; cried on _her_ shoulder; is going to sleep in _her_ room tonight.  The past week seems like such a blur… it’s like Quinn was being a bitch and avoiding Rachel at all costs until she suddenly wasn’t anymore, and now they’re here.

“Thank you,” Rachel says again as she returns; her pajamas are pink with cartoon owls on them, and Quinn finds herself stifling a smile.

She gets up and rummages through her dresser for some shorts and a t-shirt.  “I’ll be right back,” she says, then brings her clothes down the hall, locks the door behind her, and lets out a deep breath.  She doesn’t know what she’s so anxious about—this is just Rachel sleeping in her room tonight.  They’ll go to bed, and then in the morning Rachel will leave, and there’s nothing complicated or scary about any of it.

Quinn rolls her eyes at herself and takes her time changing her clothes, brushing her teeth, and even messing with her hair a little before finally heading back to her room.

Rachel’s already arranged her blankets on the floor but is now peering at Quinn’s laptop screen, and Quinn freezes in the doorway.

“Not starting your paper till this weekend, huh?” Rachel asks, throwing her a cheeky smile.

Quinn feels her face burn.  “I figured out a topic,” she says with a shrug, “and I had nothing better to do, so.”  She clears her throat.  “Do you need any more blankets?”

Rachel shakes her head and tries to stifle her amusement.  “I’m fine, thanks.”  She goes back to her spot on the floor and sits down, but as she begins to tuck herself in, her bottom lip starts wobbling a little.

“You okay?”

She shrugs and nibbles her lip.  “Trying to stop thinking.”

Quinn sits on her bed and pulls back the covers.  “How’s it going so far?”

“Could use some work.”

The corner of Quinn’s mouth twitches as she slips under her covers and curls up on her side.  “Um… goodnight,” she says before turning off the light.

“Goodnight,” Rachel echoes quietly.

Quinn closes her eyes and tries to clear her head and relax, but the pitch darkness emphasizes every sound and she can hear Rachel still sniffling a few feet away.  She rolls over onto her other side and burrows deeper into her pillows in an attempt to muffle the rest of the world, but Rachel’s probably crying again and now she feels like a dick for being up here on her bed and making Rachel sleep on the floor when she’s had such a shitty day.

She sits up, grabs her pillow, and gets off her mattress.  “Move over,” she whispers, crouching next to Rachel, who turns over with a start.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s not fair if I’m in a bed and you’re on the floor.  Move over.”

“I really don’t mind,” Rachel insists even as she makes room for Quinn among the blankets.

Quinn ignores her as she settles into her new spot.  “Goodnight,” she says again, determinedly closing her eyes so Rachel won’t try to argue anymore.

“Goodnight,” she whispers back, and she’s not sniffling as much anymore.

Quinn pulls the blankets up to her chin and mentally replays everything that’s happened tonight, wondering what it’s going to be like when they get back to school.  Sure, they’ve been talking more and more this week, and Rachel’s already been there for Quinn in the biggest way possible; but this time it was the opposite—Rachel coming to Quinn for support—and it feels different, even more so than it felt when Quinn left Rachel’s house that night.

And honestly, she once again has no idea where to go from here.  She’s hanging onto the Skanks by a thread, and every step she takes toward Rachel tends to only make it worse, and everything she does to try and fix it makes everyone else hate her.  No matter what her intentions are, everything backfires, and all Quinn wants is some steady ground; a safe place to stand.

Bits of their conversation start swirling through her head and one in particular— _It’s not selfish.  It’s never been selfish_ —jumps out.  She thinks about all the things she’s done that people called selfish, that _she_ called selfish, and when her mind drifts to sophomore year, her eyes start to burn.  She used to be exactly where Rachel was until today, knows exactly what it’s like to be the center of someone’s universe; it’s why she told Finn he was the father, because she knew he didn’t have any other plans.

Her hand drifts over her stomach and she sniffs.  Rachel let him go for the same reasons Quinn kept him around; what kind of a person does that make her?

Rachel lets out a sleepy sigh and Quinn glances over, thinking about her head on Rachel’s shoulder, and then about Rachel’s head on her own shoulder, and then she’s asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for violence and homophobic language.

Quinn almost doesn’t hear her alarm go off.  It sounds further away than normal, and she only feels carpet when she reaches blindly behind her, and that’s when she finally opens her eyes.

It takes her a moment to register how close she is to Rachel; they’re facing each other, only inches apart so Quinn can feel warm breath against her cheek, and suddenly she is very, very awake.  She sits up and gets to her feet and hits the switch on her clock to stop the beeping, then glances back at Rachel as she rolls onto her back and rubs her eyes.

“Morning,” Quinn says, taking a seat on her bed.

“Morning,” Rachel mumbles back, and then her arms drop to the floor and she takes a deep breath in and out.  “I broke up with Finn.”

“You did.”

She props herself on her elbows, staring blankly ahead for a moment before looking at Quinn.  “I should probably get home so I can shower before school.”

Quinn nods.  “Okay.”

Rachel shifts off of the blankets and quickly folds them into a neat pile, then stands up and grabs her bag from a few feet away.  “I’m just gonna go change,” she says, and heads down the hall.

Quinn’s eyes drop to the pile of blankets and pillows where Rachel was sleeping mere minutes before, and she’s not quite sure why she’s so stuck on the visual or what the feeling in her stomach is all about.  She shakes her head and rakes a hand through her hair and stretches a bit, trying to remember what happened in the dream she had last night, but nothing surfaces.

“Thank you,” Rachel says as she returns, “for everything.”

Quinn nods once.  “No problem.”

She places her folded pajamas neatly in her bag and zips it up, then pauses.  “It means a lot to me, what you did last night.  Kurt and Mercedes probably would’ve said ‘I told you so,’ but you let me…”  Rachel clears her throat.  “Anyways, it means a lot.”  She gives Quinn a small smile and gestures to the door.  “I’ll get out of your way now.”

“I’ll, um… I’ll walk you out,” Quinn mumbles, because she doesn’t like the idea of Rachel possibly encountering Judy without her there, and together they head down the stairs.  “See you at school,” she says once they reach the door.

Rachel nods, and it looks like she wants to say something.

Quinn’s hand is on the doorknob.  “You okay?”

She nibbles her lip for a moment.  “Would it be alright if I hugged you?”

“Uh.  Yeah…?”

Rachel beams and wraps her arms around Quinn, and between the smell of Rachel’s hair and the warmth of Rachel’s body against hers, it’s surprisingly easy to hug her back.

“See you at school,” Rachel finally echoes, then waits for Quinn to remember to open the door, and then she’s gone.

Quinn closes the door and turns back toward the foyer, waiting for her mom to appear from the kitchen or the living room and demand an explanation for Rachel’s appearance last night, but the house is silent.

.

“Why didn’t you tell me you broke up with Finn?”

It’s not until she hears Kurt’s voice behind her that she even realizes Rachel is a few yards away at her locker, and she carefully organizes the contents of her own so she’s not tempted to look around.

“Technically he broke up with _me_ ,” Rachel replies, sounding uninterested and even a little annoyed, “but yes, we’ve separated.”

“Alright, fine, but why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

She can practically hear the eye-roll.  “Kurt, your status as my best friend and Finn’s stepbrother doesn’t mean either of us is obligated to share the intimate details of our personal lives with you.  It’s our information to share, in our own time, and with whomever _we_ decide to share it with.”

There’s a beat of silence, followed by a sigh.  “I’m sorry,” Kurt says, “I shouldn’t be whining about this; that was selfish.  I’m just worried about you.”

“I’m fine, Kurt.  Really.  It was a long time coming, and it’s for the best… a-and I’ve already begun brainstorming a song to perform for glee club to address the matter.”

“Please tell me you won’t make us sit through any Taylor Swift or Beyoncé.”

Quinn risks a glance over her shoulder and sees Rachel cross her arms.  “While emotional power-ballads are certainly my forte, I am _more_ than capable of dabbling in other genres.”

“And I am more than aware of your versatility,” he replies with a comforting squeeze of her shoulder.  “Anything I can do to help?  You can join Blaine and me for lunch if you want.”

“While I appreciate the offer, I think I’m just going to eat in the choir room today; I need to regain my emotional equilibrium.”

“Well, if you need a shoulder to cry on or a partner for any spontaneous musical numbers, you know where to find me.”

Quinn hears him walk away, and her heart is racing; Rachel’s voice is still echoing in her head, talking about “intimate details” and “whomever we decide to share it with,” because Rachel decided to share this intimate detail with _her_.

“Hi, Quinn.”

Rachel is now standing beside her, and she closes her locker.  “Hey.”

“I’d like to ask you something,” Rachel continues slowly, “And I’ll completely understand if the proposition makes you uncomfortable, so please don’t be afraid to say no—”

“Rachel,” she interrupts, her mouth suddenly dry as her heart hammers inside her chest.

“Would you like to have lunch in the choir room with me?”

It’s such a simple, ordinary question, but Quinn nearly chokes on her own air.

“As I said, I won’t be the least bit offended if you decline… I know the choir room is probably the last place you’d want to be, and I apologize if you deem it insensitive of me to—”

“No, it’s… it’s fine,” Quinn says, but when she sees that Rachel is still nervous, she manages a small, joking smile.  “But what about your emotional equilibrium?”  Rachel blushes, and Quinn immediately feels guilty.  “I-I wasn’t trying to listen,” she explains, her own face heating up, “It just… y’know…”

Rachel shakes her head and it looks like she’s trying to hold in a laugh.  “I’m not mad.  And I only said that to avoid giving Kurt the chance to badger me about my choice in suitors.”  She shrugs.  “I came to you last night for a reason; I hardly think your presence would have a negative impact.”

She tries to ignore the way her stomach tightens at Rachel’s words.  “Um… yeah,” she says finally, “I’ll be there.”

Rachel’s smile is identical to the one she wore earlier this morning, when Quinn gave her permission for a hug.  “Excellent!  I’ll see you then.”  She heads off down the hall, and Quinn’s eyes stay on her for a lot longer than she intends them to.

“What are you doing?”

She whips around to find Puck standing behind her, frowning as he glances between her and Rachel’s retreating form.  “Nothing, I was just… I-I was talking to Rachel,” she stammers, wondering why he looks so mad, but then she sets her jaw and tries to sound challenging.  “Is that a problem?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out with a sharp huff.  “Look, you can screw with me all you want—you know, act like we’re cool for two minutes and then let your asshole friends jerk you back to the dark side.  But Rachel?” he continues, nodding down the hall.  “She doesn’t deserve that.  And I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but if it’s supposed to end with her getting hurt...”  He shakes his head.  “Seriously, just leave her alone,” he says coldly, then takes off before she can say another word.

She stares at the back of his head for a long moment, and once he turns the corner, she kicks the locker below hers as hard as she can.

.

When lunch rolls around she takes her time getting to the choir room; she doesn’t want to be there before Rachel, or have anybody around to watch her go in, and when the hallway is finally empty, she makes two gentle knocks on the door.

Rachel waves her in and then she’s across the threshold, stepping into the one room she’s avoided like the plague since school started.  It’s strange, being alone with Rachel in here; she’s so used to the room being filled with people, with sound, with _pressure_ , but now… it’s quiet and calm, like they’re completely separated from the rest of the school, and even with Puck’s words still swirling around her head, she finds it just a little bit easier to breathe.

“Hey,” she says, stopping a few feet away from where Rachel is leaning against the piano, flipping through a thick stack of sheet music.

“Hi!” Rachel replies with a huge smile.  “How’s your day going so far?”

Quinn just shrugs, because she’s not in the mood to talk about the Puck crap.  “What are you working on?” she asks, nodding at the pile of papers.

Rachel sighs.  “I’m trying to pick a song to perform for glee club this week—something relevant to my relationship with Finn ending, but…”

“Less power ballad-y?” Quinn supplies, sitting cross-legged in one of the plastic chairs and taking an apple out of her bag.

She abandons the music and sinks into the seat next to Quinn.  “I tend to overdo it, don’t I.”

“No, I think… I think you’re very honest,” Quinn says carefully.  “You don’t hold back.”

“That’s the thing, though.”  Rachel fiddles with one of the buttons on her sweater.  “If I’m being truly honest about this breakup, I’m—”  She shrugs.  “I’m _okay_.  I’m not wallowing, o-or trying to devise a plan to get back together… Don’t get me wrong, I did love him, and I suppose I still do, in a way.”  Rachel takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  “But… we’re done.  For good.  And I just… I want everyone to understand that, and not treat me like I’m this pathetic, lonely ex-girlfriend.”

Quinn concentrates very hard on chewing and then swallowing her mouthful of apple.  “For the record, you don’t seem pathetic or lonely to me.”

“I’ve told you, you don’t have to sugarcoat anything for me.”

She shrugs.  “I’m not.  Last night when you were upset, I didn’t think it was because you’re lost without him or anything.  I thought it was because somebody you care about a lot let you down in a huge way.  And who can really blame you for that?”

Rachel glances at her, eyes full of something Quinn can’t quite place.  “Thank you,” she says quietly, sincerely.

Quinn takes another bite of her apple, trying to ignore how fast her heart is beating.

.

She comes home to a note from her mom saying she won’t be home for dinner, and ends up doing her homework downstairs while a horror movie marathon plays on the TV.

Halfway through the second movie, she takes out her phone.

**Do you like scary movies?**

She adds another paragraph to her paper, then Rachel replies.

**I haven’t seen very many.  I stopped watching them after Ghost Busters gave me nightmares.**

Quinn snorts.  **I think you and I have very different definitions of “scary”.**

The next text comes faster than the first one.  **As a performer, I experience plenty of adrenalin rushes.  I don’t need to spend two hours stressing over people and situations that aren’t even real.**

**How many times have you had to give this speech?** She types with a quirked eyebrow.

**Only every single Halloween, when my dads try to get me to watch the classics with them.**

Quinn is smirking now.  **You poor, poor thing.**

**Don’t you have a paper to write? ;)**

She barks out a laugh at that one.  **Whatever, mom…** she types, but then her fingers stall on the keys, and after a long moment, she deletes the words and writes a new message.

**Fair enough.  See you tomorrow.**

.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night,” Rachel announces the next day, “And I have another proposition for you.”

Quinn spins her locker dial too far as her heart skips a beat, and she has to start over.  “Yeah?”

Rachel takes a breath, like she’s trying to steady herself.  “Would you like to come over tonight and watch a movie?”  She swallows hard.  “A scary one?”

“Define ‘scary,’” Quinn says, stifling a smirk.

“You can choose the movie.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow.  “Are you sure you want to give me that much power?”

Rachel squares her shoulders.  “I’ve decided that I trust you.  And… how bad could it really be?”

“I guess that all depends on which movie I pick,” she replies, not holding back her grin anymore.

Rachel nods.  “I trust you,” she repeats, sounding about as confident as someone preparing to jump out of a plane without a parachute.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar?”

“On occasion.”

Quinn grabs the notebook she needs and closes her locker.  “Do you prefer psychological thrillers or gory slashers?”

Rachel actually looks like she might puke.  “Is that a trick question?”

“See you at lunch,” Quinn replies as she begins walking away, and a wave of dread hits her when she realizes she hasn’t technically been invited again.

“Fair enough,” Rachel says with a playful smile, and the dread is replaced with something different, something she forces out of her mind as she heads down the hall.

.

As she walks through the front door, she’s so wrapped up in teasing Rachel about movie options via text that she almost doesn’t hear her mom call out to her from the kitchen.

“Quinn, I need to speak with you about something.”

She rolls her eyes and heads in that direction.  “What’s up?” she asks, fiddling with her keys.

Judy is staring at her wine glass, her lips pursed into a tense line.  “What you’re doing…” she begins quietly.  “You can’t.”

“What I’m doing?” Quinn repeats slowly, arching an eyebrow.

Judy takes a small sip of her drink and swallows.  “With that girl.”

Quinn is still confused, but the words send chills down her spine anyways.  She opens and closes her mouth before managing a reply.  “What _girl_?  What are you talking ab—”

“I saw you two,” Judy interrupts, “the other night, when she stayed here.”

She shakes her head.  “Mom…”

“You can’t let it happen again, Quinnie.  It was… extremely inappropriate,” she says, but there’s something weird about her voice, and she can’t look at Quinn.

Quinn’s eyes are burning.  “That wasn’t even—”

“No more text messages, no more spending time with her outside of school—”

She shakes her head slowly.  “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

Judy’s fingers are taut around the stem of her wine glass.  “I know what I saw.”

“She broke up with Finn, she needed—”

“That’s _enough_ ,” Judy interrupts once more, so quietly that it sends shivers down Quinn’s spine.  “Please stop this, Quinnie.  I don’t—I don’t want to have to call your father again.”

Quinn stares at her mom until her vision goes blurry, and when she blinks, a tear rolls down her cheek.  She turns and walks away without another word, stuffing her feet into her boots and slamming the door behind her.

.

For a while she just drives—not really paying attention to lefts or rights, just _going_ —and when she finally thinks she can trust her voice, she pulls into a grocery store parking lot and takes out her phone.

“Hey, kiddo.”

She bites her bottom lip hard before speaking.  “Where are you guys?”

“About to crash a party on Avery Street.  What about you, got any plans?”  The Mack’s tone is mocking as hell, and Quinn can hear her snap her gum on the other line.

“See you there,” Quinn replies before hanging up, then cranks the volume on the radio until _“I don’t want to have to call your father again”_ is distant background noise.

.

She finds them with surprising ease, given the number of people crammed into this house, but probably because no one else seems to want to be within five feet of them.

“Shit,” Sheila says to The Mack as Quinn approaches, “I thought you were kidding.”

The Mack lights a cigarette.  “Where you been, babe?  We were starting to _worry_.”

Quinn rolls her eyes.  “Nowhere,” she mutters, “Just… around.”

“Yeah?” she replies with a dangerous smirk.  “Doing anything fun?”

“Look, I’m here now, aren’t I?  Just get me a fucking drink and—”

“Man, you are _precious_ ,” The Mack interrupts, taking a drag and flicking ash at Quinn’s feet.  “You know we notice when you disappear on us, right?  Or do you think we’re all just fucking idiots?”

“Not idiots,” she says before she can stop herself, “Just in desperate need of a hobby.”

Sheila snorts and Ronnie actually looks a little pissed, but The Mack just smiles pleasantly.  “A hobby, huh?”  She rubs her chin thoughtfully.  “What about storytelling?  I got a great one about this preggo-Christian-girl-turned-psycho-closet-case…”

Dread explodes in the pit of Quinn’s stomach.

“What d’you think?” The Mack asks, grinding her cigarette butt against the side of a flower vase.  “Should I gather everyone around for a show?  I mean, who knows, I could even do an encore performance at school on Monday.”  She crosses her arms and her smile gets bigger.  “Sky’s the limit.”

Quinn clenches her jaw so hard she’s surprised her teeth don’t crack; she wants to shove The Mack to the ground, scream in her face until she loses her voice, demand to know why the _fuck_ she’s so dedicated to shitting on Quinn’s life.

Instead she pushes past The Mack and Ronnie, to the other side of the room, where a guy is filling cups from the keg.  She grabs the half-filled one from his hand, tipping her head back and downing it in one go.

“Thirsty?” he asks with a smirk, taking a long sip from his own cup.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.  “You have no idea,” she replies, and when she notices his big brown eyes, something in her stomach flips.  “You busy?”

He lets go of the keg pump and takes a step closer to her.  “That depends.”

Quinn quirks an eyebrow and grabs his hand, hoping the Skanks are watching as she pulls him through the crowd and around a corner and down a hallway.  When she finally finds a free patch of wall, she promptly pushes him against it and he lets out a grunt of surprise.  She takes advantage of his open mouth, pushing her lips against his, and she feels a hand on her ass almost immediately while the other one slides up until his fingers are tangling in her hair.

“The pink is hot,” he breathes, and now his hands are gripping her thighs; he picks her up and spins them around so she’s against the wall, then his mouth and tongue start to get sloppier.

She tries to ignore how awkward the kisses are and how nauseating his aftershave smells and how not-right his body feels against hers, but after another minute or so, she gently pushes him back a little.  “Mind getting me another drink?” she asks with what she hopes is a playful smile.

To her relief, he smirks again.  “I’ll be right back.”

The second he disappears she heads down a different hallway, trying to find a way out of the house that doesn’t involve running into him again, because this was the absolute dumbest fucking idea.  For a moment she stops looking where she’s going and she bumps into someone; a girl with long brown hair glares at her, but then her eyes dip in a way that sends a jolt of electricity to Quinn’s stomach.

“S-sorry,” Quinn stammers, her mouth suddenly dry.

The corner of her mouth quirks up.  “Wanna make it up to me?”

Quinn almost asks what she means by that but then swallows the question as the girl takes her hand and leads her through a doorway to their left.  She barely has time to register the contents of the room before she’s being guided backwards onto a bed, and then there are lips on hers—much softer ones this time, ones that seem to play rather than smother, and something in her abdomen is already on fire.

The girl sits up and takes her shirt off, and then their mouths are together again and hands are slipping under Quinn’s own shirt.  She gasps at the contact and now the kisses are deeper and hips are starting to grind down against hers, and this is too fast they need to slow down they need to stop she shouldn’t be doing this she shouldn’t be doing this with _her_ she shouldn’t be doing this at _all_ she shouldn’t—

“Wait,” Quinn breathes as the girl’s tongue dances along her throat.  She hears a low chuckle but otherwise gets no response, and the hands are practically in her bra now.  “I can’t—”  She fumbles around until she’s holding on to both of the girl’s wrists, then pushes them away.  “I can’t do this.”

The girl sits up again and pushes her hair out of her face, breathing heavily.  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Quinn pulls her shirt back down and avoids her eyes.  “I-I’m sorry, I just… I can’t—”

“God, you straight girls are unbe _liev_ able,” she grumbles, grabbing her shirt and yanking it back on, then walking out the door (which they apparently forgot to close on the way in) and slamming it shut behind her.

Quinn covers her eyes with her palms, trying to steady her breathing and hold in the sobs threatening to slip from her throat.  She finally sits up and makes sure her clothes are all where they should be, then attempts to be as invisible as possible as she slips out of the room.

She spots the back door and heads out that way, deciding that there is zero need for her to be here anymore and it would be best to get to her car ASAP.  It takes her a few minutes to get past the crowd on the deck, but then she walks along the side of the house and finally ends up at the curb where she parked, and she’s never been so relieved to see her red Beetle.

She hits the unlock button on the remote and pulls on the door handle, but then there’s a voice behind her.

“What’s up, dyke?”

A hand pushes her car door closed again and she whips around to find the guy from earlier, looking significantly angrier and more drunk than he was during their first encounter.

“Leave me alone,” she mutters, reaching for the door handle again, but he grabs her wrist and yanks, sending a spasm of pain shooting up her arm.

“That’s not what you wanted earlier when you had me against the wall,” he replies, leaning in so she’s pinned to the car.  “Y’know… _before_ you ditched me to fuck that girl.”

Her insides turn to ice and she grimaces at both the pain in her arm and his beer breath.  “Let me go,” she grunts, trying to shove him away, but her wrist gives her hell and suddenly there’s a harsh slap across her cheek.

His mouth is right next to her ear.  “Do you really think putting up a fight is gonna make a difference?”

Quinn lets out a sob that’s cut off by a fist pummeling into her stomach; she doubles over and he grabs her by the hair, pulling until she pitches forward onto the pavement, then launches his foot into her side.

She cries out and her breathing is loud and ragged now.  “Please,” she gasps, then grunts at another kick, “Please stop, please…”

“What, you wanna to go fuck her again?” he asks, hitting her again and again.  “Fucking slut.  Should’ve known, with hair like that.  Fucking _freak_.”

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, not even sure what she’s apologizing for, “Please, I’m—please, stop.”

When he finally does, several agonizing moments later, her eyes are burning.  “Why don’t you do us all a favor,” he says, his tone icy and voice slightly breathless, “and jump off the fucking roof.”  He spits on a patch of ground next to her, and then he’s gone.

Quinn doesn’t move at first.  She’s shaking all over and she can’t make her lungs take normal breaths and her wrist hurts like _fuck_ and her cheek is still throbbing and she can feel shoe-shaped bruises all over her torso—

“Quinn?  What the _fuck_?”

She hears Ronnie’s voice and tries to sit up, but all her body lets her do is roll onto her side.  Footsteps come closer as she lets out a sharp groan, and then there’s a pair of boots in her peripheral vision.

“Shit, what _happened_?” Ronnie actually sounds concerned and Quinn avoids her eyes; if Ronnie’s faking it, she doesn’t want to know.

Quinn just shakes her head.  “I need to go,” she mumbles through clenched teeth.  She momentarily forgets about her wrist and tries to push herself up, then hisses in pain and cradles her arm against her stomach.

“And where exactly are you going?” Ronnie asks, and Quinn can practically hear her arched eyebrow.

“Home,” she snaps, or at least intends to, but she’s so goddamn tired and everything hurts and her voice cracks on the word.

“You good to drive?”  Ronnie grips her upper arm to try and help her up.  “Jesus, you can barely—”

“I’m fine, I just need…”  Quinn summons all the energy she has left and manages to get to her feet, grimacing at the pain and stiffness covering her body.  She pulls away from Ronnie’s hand and leans against her car for support.  “I need to go home.”

Ronnie doesn’t move.  “Quinn.”

She opens the door with her good hand and starts to lower herself into the seat.  “Thanks for…” she mutters, then grits her teeth as her bruised back presses against the leather.  “Thanks.”  She pulls the door closed and the world goes silent except for the sound of her breathing; she goes to put the key in the ignition but her hands are trembling so badly that it takes her several tries.  She lets out a shaky sigh of relief when the engine finally starts, but then each inhale and exhale gets tighter and tighter and she turns on the radio, cranking the volume until the music swallows her whole, until she can’t hear how unsteady her lungs are, can’t hear herself sniffling back tears, can’t hear the quiet sobs drifting up her throat.

The drive home seems to take twice as long as her drive to the party; she can’t believe how much it hurts her wrist to just hold onto the steering wheel, and she tries to manage with one hand as much as she can.  By the time she pulls into the driveway her entire body is still shaking, so badly that it takes all of her focus to unfasten her seatbelt and finally get out of the car.

She all but stumbles into the house, grimacing as she carefully takes her boots off, and she can hear the TV in the living room but she goes straight to the kitchen; she just needs some water and maybe an ice pack, and she’ll be fine.

Quinn gets a glass from the cupboard but her trembling hand can’t hold on and she drops it to the floor and the sound of shattering glass fills the room.

“Quinnie?”  The TV goes silent and then there’s footsteps coming her way.  “Have you been drinking again?”

Judy flips the kitchen light on and Quinn flinches; she slowly turns around, swallowing hard as she forces herself to look her mom in the eye.  “I’m sorry,” she chokes out.

The tendons in Judy’s neck are taut.  “There’s Tylenol in the bathroom,” she says quietly, after a long silence.  “I’ll clean this up.”

Quinn’s bottom lip wobbles with the effort of holding back tears as she grabs an ice pack from the freezer, holding it to her wrist as she slowly makes her way upstairs and to her bedroom.  Her entire body is aching, like she’s just had an all-day Cheerios practice without stretching before or after, and every muscle protests as she digs through her bureau for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

She brings them to the bathroom and sets them on the counter, then turns on the shower and begins to strip her clothes off, careful to avoid looking in the mirror.  Her phone falls out of her pocket, and when it hits the floor the screen lights up with text message notifications.

Quinn grimaces as she bends over to pick it up, and again when she sees that all three texts are from Rachel.

**Are we still on for the movie tonight?**

A tear rolls down her cheek.

**Is everything okay?  I’m not sure if you forgot about our plans or if something came up, but text me back when you get the chance.**

Another tear follows.

**I’m not mad, either way.**

Quinn can barely see the screen through the moisture in her eyes, but she tries her best, even with trembling fingers, to type a reply.

**Sorry**

Sobs are starting to push their way out of her lungs.  _“I’m sorry.  Please, I’m—please, stop.”_

Her phone buzzes.

**Don’t worry about it.  Is everything okay?**

She can barely breathe as she sets her phone face-down on the counter, opens the cabinet door, and reaches for the box of blonde hair dye that’s been sitting on the shelf for months.

_“Fucking slut.  Should’ve known, with hair like that.  Fucking **freak**.”_

.

When she gets back to her room, there are two pills and a glass of water sitting on her nightstand.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no new violence in this chapter, but there are flashbacks and references throughout, so the trigger warning remains.

_A soft hand takes hers and pulls her into a dark room; the backs of her knees hit the edge of a bed and she’s falling, but then the mattress is gone and her back collides with something hard.  New hands come out of the darkness and then there’s pain, so much pain, and she can’t seem to get away._

_“Do you really think putting up a fight is gonna make a difference?”_

_She tries screaming for help but a brutal blow to her stomach knocks the air out of her lungs—_

Quinn’s eyes open; she’s breathless and shaking again and there’s a thin sheen of sweat covering her body.  She wipes the tears away and glances at the clock, then groans both at the throbbing in her wrist and the fact that she was only out for an hour this time.  It’s been like this all night: she finally calms down enough to fall asleep, only to have the exact same nightmare wake her up again.

Her eyes droop closed again, because she’s so fucking tired, but then his voice is in her head and she forces them back open.  She reaches for the ice pack on her nightstand, now room-temperature, and sighs; she can either stay here and try to ignore the pain and go back to sleep, or she can go downstairs and try to make it better.

She lifts up her arm, as if she would be able to see any bruising or swelling in the dark, and slowly tries to flex it one way or the other.  It’s stiff and extremely unhappy with the attempted movements, and she quickly decides that she either needs more ice or more pain meds or both.

“Fuck it,” she mutters under her breath and sits up, easing herself out of bed and to her feet.  Her muscles are sore and angry and she can feel the exact places where shoe dug into flesh; she hasn’t examined herself in the mirror yet, and she kept her eyes straight ahead during her shower earlier, but she can tell which bruises are the biggest and darkest just by how much shit they give her when she moves.

Quinn slowly makes her way downstairs and to the bathroom so she can get the bottle of Tylenol from the top drawer, then pours herself some water—in a _plastic_ cup this time, just in case.  She sets it on the counter and begins to twist the cap off the pill bottle, only to clench her teeth as pain jolts along her wrist.  She switches so her left hand is on the cap and the other is holding the bottle, but that way hurts even more and she slams the bottle back on the counter.  The sound shatters the silence of the house but she hears no response from upstairs, so she takes a deep breath and gets a fresh ice pack from the freezer, then brings everything into the living room.

She eases herself onto the couch and holds the bottle between her knees, hating how ridiculous she probably looks but not knowing of any other way to get this fucking thing open.  She squeezes her legs together and uses her good hand to finally get past the stupid child-proof crap, then fishes out two pills and knocks them back with a few sips of water.

Now she presses the ice pack to her wrist, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly as her skin adjusts to the temperature, then grabs the remote off the coffee table and turns on the TV.  It’s on some home improvement channel that her mom was probably watching before she went to bed; she turns down the volume a bit and settles into the cushions, pouring every ounce of her focus into the designers on the screen, watching as they take each broken-down room and make it look bright and shiny and new again.

.

Quinn doesn’t remember closing her eyes, but then hands are coming out of the darkness again and hurting her everywhere, and she tries to push them away—

“Quinnie, wake up.  You’re having a dream.”

She opens her eyes to find the sun up and her mom perched on the edge of the couch; Judy’s hand is raised slightly, like she was about to touch Quinn’s arm, and Quinn shifts out of reach as she tries to catch her breath.

Judy glances at the bottle of pills, then at Quinn’s wrist, and then meets Quinn’s eyes again.  “How are you feeling?” she asks, her tone carefully neutral.

“Fine,” Quinn mutters, curling up so she’s further away from Judy, and she pushes her hair out of her face.

Her mom nods, hands clasped tightly in her lap.  “Your hair looks nice.”

Quinn sits up, grabs the pills and water and ice pack, and heads back upstairs without another word, but as she slams her bedroom door, she can hear Judy following her.

Sure enough, there’s a quiet knock a few moments later, and Judy doesn’t wait for her to answer.  “I could make you some soup,” she offers, hovering just inside the doorway.

Quinn just stares at her.  “Why would I want soup?”

“I just figured… since you’re not feeling well, and—”

“I’m not _sick_ ,” Quinn snaps, practically _shouts_ , and Judy shrinks back a step.  “Somebody beat the _shit_ out of me last night, which you would know if you had fucking _asked_.”

Her mom is fidgeting with her watch.  “Quinnie…”

“What was your theory?  Did you assume I just got into another fight?  Or did you have a hunch it was something to do with that _thing_ we don’t talk about,” she continues with a shrug, “and decide that you just didn’t want to know.”  Her eyes are burning with tears, and from the looks of it, so are Judy’s.  “That you weren’t going to do anything,” she grits out.

Her mom sniffs and crosses her arms tightly over her chest.  “I love you so much,” she manages, and her throat is thick.

“Get out.”  The words are quiet but full of venom, because her wrist hurts and she’s starting to get a headache from how little she’s slept and she just can’t let her mom stand there and attempt to earn sympathy or understanding.

Judy stares at her, blinking, like Quinn is speaking another language.

“GET OUT,” she yells even as a tear rolls down her cheek, and Judy immediately backs away and closes the door.

Quinn slowly curls up on her bed as she tries to ignore the pain, the tears she can’t hold back anymore, the tremors still lurking in her muscles.

Mostly, she tries to ignore the text message from Rachel still rotting away in her phone.

_Is everything okay?_

She’s so fucking tired.

.

By Monday morning, she’s surprised she can even get out of bed.  Every inch of her body is heavy and aching and it takes her an annoyingly long time to pull on jeans and a long-sleeved cardigan (a single glance at the Skank portion of her closet made her feel sick), and even longer to cover the bruise and small scratch on her cheek with her makeup kit.

Best case scenario, she gets through today without anybody noticing she’s even there.

As she walks through the parking lot and into the school she gets lots of double-takes, but everyone seems to move on in mere seconds; it’s ironic, how she looks so normal and yet everything about this is far, _far_ from any definition of the word.  She glances longingly at the nurse’s office as she passes it, wondering how much it’ll suck to go the next six hours without an ice pack, without enough sleep under her belt, without talking to—

No.  She’s not going to think about Rachel or those texts or how awful of a human being Quinn is.  She’s just going to go to her classes (except maybe English) and then home and back up to her room, where she knows nobody will ask questions that matter.

Quinn ducks into the bathroom to make sure the mountain of foundation she caked onto her cheek is effectively covering any marks, and it’s still a bit of a shock when she sees herself in the mirror.  She’d gotten so used to the scraggly pink hair, to the silver glint of her nose ring; now everything is plain again, ordinary except for the bags under her eyes.

Well, and the bruises her clothes are hiding.

“Hey, Q.”

She flinches, not having realized Santana had walked in, and she closes her eyes briefly before glancing at her in the mirror.  “Hey,” she replies, and her voice isn’t even close to its normal volume.

Santana doesn’t say anything else, just looks at her, and Quinn begins washing her hands so it looks like she came in here for a relatively normal reason.  They’re both silent as she pumps soap from the dispenser and rinses, and when she grimaces at the pain in her wrist upon yanking some paper towels from the wall, she wishes Santana weren’t watching so closely.  “Is there something I can help you with?” she asks vaguely as she tries her best to walk to the trash bin without looking like she’s about to collapse.

Santana keeps studying her even as Quinn avoids her eyes.  “Why are you walking around like Quasimodo Barbie?”

“I slept weird last night,” she answers with a shrug.

Santana crosses her arms.  “Bullshit.”

“No, you don’t get to say that,” Quinn says, shaking her head.  “ _This_ ,” she continues, gesturing between them, “You pretending to give a crap about me.  _This_ is bullshit.”

Santana rolls her eyes.  “Come on, Quinn, don’t—”

She’s already out the door.

.

Quinn’s been avoiding her locker all day, because it’s where she has the highest odds of running into Rachel, but as much of a relief as it’s been to steer clear her so far, she can’t just not bring her calculus textbook to class.

She twirls the combination as fast as she can, but each movement and footstep behind her makes her heart skip a beat, and the fact that she’s rushing herself is doing nothing for her concentration.  After three failed attempts her hand is starting to shake, and she clenches her jaw as frustration bubbles up inside.

“Hi.”

The greeting is soft and cautious, but it still makes Quinn jump.  “ _Jesus_ ,” she hisses under her breath, then glances over to find Rachel watching her with what looks like a carefully neutral expression.  “Hey.”

“How was your weekend?”

“Um… it was fine,” Quinn mutters as she finally opens her locker, trying to figure out the quickest way to exchange binders and notebooks without using her left hand.

Rachel nods slowly.  “Your hair looks nice,” she offers.

Judy’s voice echoes in her head, and Quinn has to take a deep breath so she doesn’t spit out the words that automatically appear on her tongue.

Now Rachel is nibbling her lip.  “You didn’t… You never responded to my text,” she says.  “When I asked if you were okay.”

Quinn swallows hard, staring into the back of her locker.  “Sorry.  I, um—I forgot.”

“That’s okay,” Rachel assures her.  “I meant it when I said I wasn’t mad.  I was just wondering if you could maybe…”  She shrugs.  “Tell me why you kind of… disappeared?  It’s just, with everything that happened last week, it didn’t seem like you to—”

“Look, I said I was sorry and you said you’re not mad,” Quinn snaps, “So can we just drop it?”

Rachel tries and fails to hide the hurt in her eyes.  “Yes, of course.  I-it’s none of my business, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she replies, more harshly than she means to.  She shoves what she needs into her bag, grimacing as her wrist protests, then slams her locker shut and walks away.

.

Quinn excuses herself midway through AP French so she can go to the bathroom and check on her makeup, but she only makes it around the first corner.

“Y’know,” a voice says from behind her, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had quit the Skanks.”

She stops and grits her teeth for a moment before finally turning around to face The Mack, who’s leaning against a locker several yards away.  She scrambles for a witty response, a safe comeback, _anything_ , but comes up empty.  “You’ll live,” she finally mutters with a shrug.

The Mack laughs and shoves away from the locker, taking a few slow steps toward Quinn.  “That’s not how it works, kiddo.”

“What, you mean you _can’t_ live without me?” Quinn replies flatly, “That’s a little pathetic, don’t you think?”

“You want to talk about pathetic?  How’d things go with your _boyfriend_ the other night?”  The corner of The Mack’s mouth twitches.  “Ronnie told me things got a little _rough_.”

Quinn tries to blink back the tears that are suddenly in her eyes.  “Fuck you,” she manages.

The Mack gestures to herself.  “Fuck _me_?  What’d _I_ do?”  She walks closer to Quinn until they’re standing only inches apart.  “You called me, and you invited yourself to that party.  And you may want to curl up in the corner and suck your thumb over the fact that you got fucked up, but guess what?  Afterwards, you got into your shiny car and drove to your huge house and curled up in your warm bed.” 

“Hey, asshole—how about you go swallow a cigarette.”

They both look down the hall to see Puck glaring in their direction, and Quinn’s stomach twists because his judgment is the last thing she needs right now.

He’s walking toward them and Quinn braces herself for the worst, but his eyes never meet hers; instead he stares The Mack down.

“Bite me,” she snaps.

“Not even if you asked nicely.”

The Mack rolls her eyes.  “I don’t have fucking time for this,” she growls, then glances at Quinn.  “Don’t fucking think we’re done here.”  She takes off down the hallway, and then she’s gone.

“What was that about?” Puck asks.

Quinn is still trying to work up the nerve to look at him.  “Nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing, Q.”

“I have to get back to class,” she mutters.

He moves to block her way.  “Look,” he says quietly, “I was a dick the other day.  Maybe because I couldn’t see it—maybe I was distracted ‘cause you looked like one of them.  But…”

She meets his eyes, and they’re sincere.

“You’re not into that shit, Quinn.  We both know it.”

Quinn swallows hard.  “I have to get back,” she repeats, grimacing as her wrist reminds her she hasn’t had ice or pain meds in hours.

He’s looking at her carefully.  “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she mumbles.

His expression doesn’t change, but he steps aside so she can pass, and that’s all she really cares about.  
.

When the lunch bell rings she takes her time getting up from her desk, because she has no idea where to go.  Joining Rachel in the choir room became her routine last week, but since that’s out of the question and she’s pretty much completely fucked up with the Skanks… does she have anything left?

Quinn decides she’ll try to find a quiet corner in the library, away from prying eyes or anybody who might want to interact with her, and she waits in a bathroom for the hallways to clear out so she can get there in peace.

She speeds up as she walks by the choir room and feels a rush of relief when she sees it’s empty; but then she takes a left and Rachel is _right there_ , probably on her way _to_ the choir room, and Quinn stops in her tracks.

“Did I do something wrong?” Rachel asks as she’s trying to figure out the least rude way to turn around and walk in the other direction.

Quinn pushes aside the expletives floating through her head.  “No, of course not—”

“So why are you mad at me?”  Her tone is quiet, and even a little scared.

Her heart is practically beating out of her chest; she needs to get out of this conversation _now_.  “I’m not, I _swear_ I’m not.  I’m just—” She’s looking anywhere but at Rachel.  “I need to go,” she says, turning away and trying to come up with reasons why she’s not a complete asshole.

“Quinn, wait—”

She doesn’t stop and then there are gentle fingers around her wrist, but not gentle enough; they pull and there’s a flare of sharp pain and she cries out before she can stop herself.

Rachel lets go immediately, her eyes wide and horrified.  “I-I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m so sorry.”  She’s watching carefully as Quinn cradles her wrist to her stomach, trying to hold back the tears burning in her eyes.  “Quinn,” she begins, her voice softer now, “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.  I’m fine.”

She crosses her arms over her chest.  “Don’t lie to me.”

Quinn thinks of her confrontation with Santana and wonders vaguely if they’ve been trading pointers on how to make her spill her guts; but while Santana’s attempt only made her angry, Rachel’s words cut right through her, remind her of her wrist and bruises, of how awful she’s been to Rachel all weekend, and now her vision is blurry.  She shakes her head, thinks about everything that happened on Friday, what she did, why she did it, what Rachel would think of her if she knew… “Rachel,” she manages, but her voice cracks and she swallows hard.

“You know I would never judge you,” Rachel says slowly, softly.  “No matter what it is.”  She holds out her hand, palm-up.  “Please talk to me.”  She manages to keep her voice relatively calm, but there’s still a hint of desperation underneath her words.

Quinn’s mouth goes dry and her hands are trembling and she tries so hard to avoid Rachel’s eyes, but she can feel herself losing control and she’s not sure if she has the energy to dig her way out of this.

“Please,” Rachel repeats.

Her fingers twitch forward before she can stop them; Rachel carefully takes her hand and Quinn lets herself be led down the hall and into the choir room. Rachel locks the door behind them and turns off the lights but doesn’t let go of Quinn’s hand, like she’s afraid Quinn will run away again if she’s not holding on to her.

When they’re sufficiently hidden from the rest of the school, Rachel brings two chairs to the corner of the room and turns them to face each other, then gestures for Quinn to take one of them.  “What’s wrong with your wrist?” she asks quietly, once they’re both sitting.

Quinn opens her mouth to speak, but she honestly doesn’t even know where to start.

“Was it an accident?”  Rachel’s eyes are relentless as they search hers.  “Or did somebody hurt you?”

A tear rolls down her cheek, and something in Rachel’s face changes.

“Who was it?” she asks, and it sounds like she’s terrified to hear the answer.

Quinn swallows hard and stares at the ground.  “I didn’t know him,” she chokes out.

Rachel’s eyes are starting to shine now.  “What happened?”

“I was going home,” she begins slowly, “And…”  Her voice is thick and she’s having trouble keeping her breathing steady.  “He knew.  He knew about me.  What I am.”  More tears fall and she sniffs and tries to wipe them away.

“Oh my god,” Rachel whispers, looking absolutely horrified at this point, and when Quinn continues to avoid her eyes, she pauses for a beat.  “Quinn… is it more than just your wrist?”

_Quinn lets out a sob that’s cut off by a fist pummeling into her stomach; she doubles over and he grabs her by the hair, pulling until she pitches forward onto the pavement, then launches his foot into her side._

_She cries out and her breathing is loud and ragged now.  “Please,” she gasps, then grunts at another kick, “Please stop, please…”_

Her bottom lip is trembling as she nods, and she’s dreading the next question maybe more than any of the others.

“Can you show me?”

Panic floods her system, because she hasn’t even looked at the bruises herself and she’s not sure how she feels about Rachel being the first to see.

“I know you’re scared,” Rachel says, her tone soft but determined.  “But _please_.  I-I want… I _need_ to understand.”

Quinn swallows hard.  “Are you sure about that?”

Now Rachel nods, and Quinn takes a deep breath.  She grips the hem of her shirt with trembling fingers and slowly, carefully lifts it up; she hears a sharp gasp, followed by what sounds a lot like ” _Fuck_ ,” and yanks her shirt back down.

“Quinn,” Rachel breathes, and the single syllable is loaded with so much fear and concern that a sob tears through Quinn’s lungs.  “Of _course_ you didn’t answer my texts; you were probably in the _hospital_ all weekend.  I’m so sorry—”

“I didn’t go to the hospital,” she croaks, bringing her feet up on her chair and pulling her legs into her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.

Rachel just blinks at her.  “But… but you were _assaulted_.”  Her eyes widen.  “You told your mother, right?”

Quinn crumbles, burying her face in her arms as the tears let loose; she hears a chair moving and within seconds there’s an arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders.

“Quinn, what did she do?”

She lifts her head to get in a few gulps of air but only ends up choking on the oxygen.  “ _Nothing_ ,” she gasps around the lump in her throat, “She didn’t do _anything_.”

Now Rachel pulls her into a tight hug and Quinn cries into the crook of her neck, all but melting against her as she listens to Rachel’s voice in her ear.  “I’m sorry,” Rachel whispers over and over, “I’m so sorry.”

Quinn wants to shake her head, wants to tell Rachel she shouldn’t be sorry because it was Quinn’s own fault, that she doesn’t deserve sympathy, but Rachel feels warm and good and _safe_ and she can’t make herself say the words.

“Come to my house after school,” Rachel says softly, brushing her thumb back and forth along Quinn’s shoulder.  “You can have dinner with us and spend the night in the guest room.”

“But it’s a school night.  Won’t your dads—”

“They’ll be fine with it, Quinn.  Especially if they know _why_.”

Quinn stiffens.  “You can’t tell them what happened.”

“I won’t.  And I know you probably don’t want to, but…”  Rachel’s thumb pauses.  “It might be a good idea if _you_ told them about it.”  She squeezes Quinn’s shoulder just a little and returns to moving her thumb.  “Or at least let them look at your wrist.”

Quinn sniffs and closes her eyes briefly.  “I hate this,” she whispers.

“I know.”

She straightens in her chair and Rachel loosens her hold, but doesn’t let go completely.  Quinn takes a deep breath and wipes the moisture from her cheeks, and when Rachel suddenly looks alarmed again, she remembers the makeup that was covering the bruise.

Quinn moves her hand to cover her cheek, but Rachel beats her to it; she ghosts the pad of her thumb along the mark Quinn knows is there, and her hand lingers for just a fraction of a second, until Quinn turns away.  “I should fix that,” she mumbles.

“Will you come over?” Rachel asks again.

It takes Quinn a long moment, but finally she nods.  “Okay.”

.

She can’t decide if the rest of the day crawls by or disappears right in front of her.  On the one hand, she can barely keep her eyes open so classes feel twice as long as usual, but still, the anticipation of having to interact with Rachel’s dads makes it seem like the final bell is rushing toward her at top speed.

And then she’s waiting at Rachel’s locker, still trying to absorb everything that’s happened today, and everything that’s going to happen in the next several hours, and trying like crazy to convince herself to not just go home.  As much as she loathes her mom’s inaction, there’s just… there’s still this awful comfort in knowing Judy won’t do anything, won’t force her to face any terrifying realities.  As good as it feels to have Rachel’s support, to be cared for, she also won’t let Quinn dance around the truth, won’t let her avoid the pain, and that scares the crap out of her.

“Ready?” Rachel asks as she approaches, and Quinn manages a small nod; they don’t talk much as they head out to the parking lot and to their respective cars, and then Quinn is once again following Rachel to her house.

It doesn’t take her quite as long to get out of her car this time, but she feels a huge wave of déjà-vu when Rachel leads her into the kitchen and grabs an ice pack from the freezer.  Rachel doesn’t say anything this time, just hands it to Quinn, and Quinn lets out a deep breath of relief as she holds it against her wrist.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?  Anything you need?”

Quinn almost says “Caffeine,” but she doesn’t want Rachel to wonder why she’s so tired, so she shakes her head instead.  “I’m fine.”

Rachel looks like she might not believe her, but she lets it go.  “My dads should be home in a couple of hours, so—”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?” Quinn blurts.  “I don’t want to intrude, or… or be in the way, or anything.”

“Quinn, of _course_ it’s okay.  I already told them about the change in plans and they’re thrilled they get to meet you.”

She fiddles with the ice pack; _They get to meet you_ makes it sound like a privilege or a special occasion.  And how much do they know about her?  What has Rachel been telling them?

“I promise,” Rachel continues, reaching out to lightly squeeze Quinn’s upper arm.  “We want you here.”

_It’ll be safe._

_I won’t judge you._

_We want you here._

Quinn nods and says “Okay,” because Rachel hasn’t broken a promise yet.

.

They’re doing homework in the living room when Rachel’s dads get home; the garage door opens and Quinn jumps a little in her armchair, but if Rachel notices, she doesn’t show it.

“We’re home!” one of them sing-songs to the rest of the house.

“And we come bearing gifts,” the other adds, and she can hear what sounds like grocery bags being set on the counter.

Rachel sets her notebook aside and stands up, gesturing for Quinn to do the same.  Quinn follows her into the kitchen and watches as Rachel greets her dads and gives them each a peck on the cheek, and she hides her wrist behind her back like she’s afraid they’ll just _know_.

“Dad, Daddy—this is Quinn,” Rachel says finally, her grin just a little bit shy as she steps to the side, allowing Quinn to come forward.

“So wonderful to meet you, Quinn,” one of them says with a warm smile, offering his hand.  “I’m Hiram.”

She accepts the handshake after a beat of hesitation, and as soon as she lets go, a second hand is gripping hers.

“I’m Leroy,” he says, his demeanor equally kind.  “We’re so glad you could join us tonight.”

Quinn manages a nod.  “Thank you for, um…”  The words get lost somewhere in her throat.  “I-it’s nice to meet you, too.”

“So, you mentioned gifts?” Rachel presses, standing on her tiptoes to look into the paper bags.

Leroy shrugs.  “Oh, nothing special.  Just the precise ingredients required to make your favorite vegan pizza.”

Rachel beams and wraps him in a tight hug.  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Easy there, peanut monster.  Don’t injure the chef before he can make your dinner.”

She immediately drops her arms and steps back, her smile gone and replaced with a pout.  “I told you not to call me that anymore.”

Quinn’s heart starts to pound; is Rachel actually upset?  Is it just some inside joke?  Should Quinn laugh?  Leave the room?  Leave the _house_?

“Oh, honey,” Hiram says with a sarcastic sigh, “When are you going to accept that peanut monster is immortal?”  She opens her mouth to object, but he cuts her off as he begins emptying the bags.  “ _But time makes you bolder_ ,” he sings, “ _Children get older, and I’m getting older too_ … But not that nickname, ever.  Sorry.”  Hiram gives her a peck on the cheek and brings the vegetables over to the sink.

Quinn tries not to look as bewildered as she feels, but when Leroy catches her eye, she takes a deep breath.  “I don’t understand,” she says quietly as Rachel huffs at Hiram and begins to help him with the food.

Leroy leans over conspiratorially.  “It started off with us calling her peanut, just because she was so small.  Not the most original joke, admittedly, but _then_ …”  He breaks for a dramatic pause.  “Then we discovered her utter abhorrence of scary movies.  And they didn’t even have to be particularly terrifying; she refused to believe that _Ghost_ was a romance, purely based on the title, until we convinced her to watch the trailer.”

Quinn snorts without meaning to and Rachel glances over her shoulder at the two of them.

“What are you guys talking about?” she asks suspiciously.

He waves her off.  “Nothing, dear,” he replies, winking at Quinn, and she blushes.  “As I was saying, we ended up adding the ‘monster’ bit as a sort of… appreciation, if you will, for her remarkable ability to be frightened by things that are about as scary as she is.”

Quinn tries to smother her laugh and they get another dirty look from Rachel, but she only feels a little guilty this time.

The pizza goes in the oven while Leroy makes a salad, and soon it’s time to set the table.  Hiram begins to hand Quinn a stack of plates, and she panics at the thought of them watching her carry them to the table one-by-one with her right hand instead of bringing all of them at once, but Rachel steps in first.

“You can do the silverware and napkins,” she says.

“O-of course.  Whatever’s easiest,” Quinn stammers, and she wishes she could be as subtle as Rachel with this stuff.

When everything is ready they all take their seats at the square table, with Rachel sitting to Quinn’s right, Leroy to her left, and Hiram across, and she can’t remember the last time a kitchen smelled so good.

“This is delicious,” she says around her first mouthful of pizza.

Rachel beams.  “I’m so glad you like it!  Kurt is partial and Mercedes has completely refused to try it… she simply doesn’t understand what she’s missing out on.”

“My recipe _is_ quite earth-shattering,” Hiram says dreamily.

Leroy laughs.  “ _Your_ recipe?  If I remember correctly, you stole it from the Internet.”

“I didn’t _steal_ it,” he argues, “I… very politely asked Google to share its culinary wisdom.”

“If you’d like to try an _actual_ original recipe,” Leroy says to Quinn, “You should try this salad.  Invented it completely by accident.”  He picks up the large wooden bowl at the opposite end of the table from her.  “Here, have some.”

Rachel holds out her hands.  “I’ll pass it to her, daddy.”

“I’ve got it,” he assures her, and Quinn’s pulse is racing.  The bowl looks too heavy to hold with one hand, and there’s no space next to her for him to put it on the table, but she doesn’t want to be rude and reject the offer…

The bowl is in her hands before she can think about it any further, and then there’s a sharp pain in her wrist and the salad is tipping sideways and it knocks over Leroy’s glass of water.

“I’m—I’m _so_ sorry,” Quinn gasps, grabbing her napkin and doing her best to wipe up the spill while also trying not to grimace at the pain.

“It’s just a little water,” Leroy replies with a smile as Rachel leaves the table and gets some paper towels.  “No harm done.”  His eyes dip to Quinn’s wrist as she continues to dab at the moisture in the tablecloth.  “Is your wrist okay?”

Her eyes snap to his and she immediately moves her left hand to her lap.  “Uh… yeah, it’s fine.  I just—didn’t get a good grip before I—I’m _really_ sorry,” she mumbles.

He shakes his head.  “I told you, no harm done.  You’ve got nothing to worry about, okay?”

She can’t decide if his words make her want to laugh or throw up, so she just nods.

.

Quinn makes it to the end of the meal without dropping anything else, and Rachel takes care of the heaviest dishes when they clear the table, but her wrist still hurts and now that she’d have an audience for the ice pack, she’s running out of options.

She takes a seat at the island as Leroy and Hiram load the dishwasher, laying her wrist against the cold countertop, but it doesn’t do much to solve the problem.

Rachel walks over and glances at her dads before looking carefully at Quinn.  “Are you okay?” she asks, nodding at Quinn’s wrist.

She flexes her fingers a few times.  “It hurts,” she mutters with a small shrug.

“What do you want to do?”

Quinn nibbles her lip, her eyes drifting from Hiram and Leroy to her wrist and back again.  “I guess it wouldn’t be awful if I told them.”

Rachel leans in a little closer.  “Are you sure?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  “Yeah.”

Rachel nods, then turns to face her dads.  “Daddy?”

“Yes, dear?” Leroy replies as he dries his hands with a dish towel.

“We were wondering if… if you could take a look at Quinn’s wrist.”

His face stays neutral as he hangs the towel on its rack.  “Of course,” he says, walking around the counter and sitting down next to Quinn, then extends his hands, palms up.

Quinn holds out her arm, and as he examines it with gentle fingers, she wonders if he can feel how fast her pulse is racing.

“Well, there’s definitely swelling,” he murmurs as Hiram observes from over his shoulder.  “And it hurts when you put too much pressure on it, or try to move it?”  She nods, and he glances at Rachel.  “Babygirl, can you run upstairs and grab the ACE bandages?”

Once she’s out of the room, he looks carefully at Quinn.  “Could you tell me what happened?  How you hurt your wrist?”

Quinn swallows hard and shrugs.  “I just… fell,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady.  “And I landed awkwardly.”  She shrugs again.  “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Okay,” he replies, nodding, and a few moments later Rachel returns with the bandages.  “I’m going to wrap your wrist,” he says, beginning to wind the bandage around her arm, “Just to keep it stable and compressed.  Have you been doing anything for the pain?”

She winces as the bandage gets closer and closer to her wrist.  “Ice and Tylenol.”

He’s silent for a minute as he wraps her wrist and palm, each movement slow and careful; she hisses in pain a few times, but finally he fastens the end and she lets herself relax again.  “I know you don’t know us very well yet,” he says, “And you’re completely welcome to say no… but I think what we’d like to do is call you out sick tomorrow, and take you to see a doctor—just to make sure it’s not too serious.”  He glances back at Hiram, who nods in agreement, before looking at Quinn again.  “Would you be comfortable with that?”

“Um…”  Quinn bites her lip, thinking about the last time she was in a hospital, and about the idea of someone else’s parents being in control for once.  “Yeah,” she answers finally, and Rachel gives her a small smile.

Leroy squeezes her shoulder.  “Excellent.  I’ll get you some painkillers for tonight and we’ll go to the ER in the morning, okay?”

Quinn nods and mumbles “Thank you,” and as soon as Leroy rises from his chair, Rachel takes his place.

“How does it feel?” she asks, nodding to Quinn’s wrist.

She shrugs.  “Still hurts.  But it’s better.”

Leroy returns with two pills and pours her a glass of water, and as she knocks them back, he gets a second ice pack from the freezer and hands it to her.

“There’s a _Grey’s Anatomy_ marathon on _Lifetime_ ,” Hiram calls from the next room, “If anyone’s interested.”

“Let me pour us some wine,” Leroy replies, “and then I will be _very_ interested.”

Quinn presses the ice pack to her wrist as she tries to get used to the pressure from the bandages, and when she looks up, Rachel is watching her.  “I’m fine,” she says before Rachel can ask.

Rachel nods and gives her a small smile.  “So, are you up for some _Grey’s_?”

Quinn shrugs.  “I’ve never seen it before.”

“Well, if you’re entertained by absurd medical dilemmas and superfluous interpersonal drama, then it’ll certainly help take your mind off everything else.”

She shrugs again and nods.  “Why not?”

Rachel leads her into the living room and they take a seat on the couch, and Quinn almost immediately feels the weight of fatigue pressing down on her.  Her head all but refuses to stay upright and almost ends up on Rachel’s shoulder a few times, but she forces herself to sit up as best she can.

When the first episode ends, Rachel takes a pillow and sets it in her lap, then glances at Quinn.  “You can lie down if you want,” she says, patting the pillow and then quickly returning her attention to the TV.

For a long moment Quinn doesn’t move; she’s not sure she actually wants to fall asleep here, because that means more nightmares and she does _not_ want Rachel to know about those.  But then there’s the whole lying-in-Rachel’s-lap thing, the _closeness_ that—

She leans over before her brain can even finish the thought, and by the time her head hits the pillow, she forgets all about wanting to justify why she’s letting herself do this.

At one point she feels fingertips combing gently through her hair, and the sensation both makes her heart race and her eyelids heavier.  She tries so hard to keep them from drooping closed, but she’s so exhausted that she doesn’t even realize when they’re not open anymore, nor when she stops hearing the dialogue from the TV.  All she knows is there are suddenly strong arms scooping her off the couch and carrying her upstairs, then setting her on a bed and covering her in warm blankets.

Everything is quiet for a little while, until she hears his voice again.

_“What’s up, dyke?”_

_She tries to run away but fists keep crashing into her from what seems like every direction.  Every inch of her is on fire as the hits keep coming and she screams for him to stop, **begs**..._

Quinn wakes up with a jolt, gasping for air as she pushes her hair out of her face with trembling fingers.  It’s almost hard for her to believe this has only been happening for a few days; she feels like it’s been years since she got a good night’s sleep, since she wasn’t afraid to close her eyes, and she starts to wonder how long this is going to last.  How long will it take for the nightmares to back off?

What if they don’t?

A shiver runs up her spine at the thought of this going on forever, and she curls up as small as she can and tries to sniff back the emotion bubbling up inside.

She jumps when the door suddenly opens, and though it’s too dark to see much, she hears someone slip into the room and tiptoe around to the other side of the bed.  Her breath catches in her throat when the mattress dips, and then everything is still for a beat.

“Quinn?”

Rachel’s voice is impossibly soft but Quinn can’t bear to roll over and look at her; if she hadn’t gone to that party, hadn’t tried to be normal, hadn’t pissed off that guy, none of this would be happening.

“Quinn,” Rachel repeats, and now there are fingertips brushing gently against the space between her shoulder blades, and she flinches at the contact.

She tries to smother a string of sobs as best she can.  “Please go,” she croaks, hating that Rachel can probably feel how much she’s shaking.

Rachel’s hand drifts from her spine to her shoulder, and after a bit of hesitation, she presses herself flush against Quinn and wraps her arm around Quinn’s stomach.  “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers.

“Rachel,” she tries to argue, but her voice gets lost in an avalanche of tears and Rachel’s hold on her only tightens.

There’s a quiet “Shhhhhhh” in her ear and Rachel starts brushing her thumb back and forth along the back of Quinn’s palm; she tries to focus on the movement but she can still hear his voice, feel his fists and shoes, and her breathing is getting erratic again.

“Every night,” she chokes out, “Every single night since it happened.”

Rachel squeezes her hand.  “What can I do?”

_“I saw you two.  The other night, when she stayed here.”_

_“You can’t let it happen again, Quinnie.  It was extremely inappropriate.”_

_“I don’t want to have to call your father again.”_

Quinn should tell her to leave again.  She should not let them be in this bed together, not let Rachel hold her like this, not let Rachel comfort her or feel bad because this was _all Quinn’s fault_.

But then Rachel’s hand squeezes hers again and their fingers somehow end up lacing together, and Quinn’s resolve shatters into a million pieces.

“Sing,” she breathes without even having registered the word on her tongue.

“Sing what?”

Quinn takes a deep, shuddering breath.  “Anything.”

Rachel’s thumb brushes against hers a few times, and then her voice is soft in Quinn’s ear.

_Hey Jude, don’t make it bad_   
_Take a sad song and make it better_   
_Remember to let her into your heart_   
_Then you can start to make it better_

Chills erupt along Quinn’s arms; she’s never heard Rachel sing like this before, with every word careful and sincere and just for her.

_Hey Jude, don’t be afraid_   
_You were made to go out and get her_   
_The minute you let her under your skin_   
_Then you begin to make it better_

Quinn is fighting to keep her eyes open and she squeezes Rachel’s hand as hard as she can.

_And anytime you feel the pain_   
_Hey Jude, refrain_   
_Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders_

Rachel pauses and brushes her cheek against Quinn’s shoulder, or maybe her lips; Quinn doesn’t let herself think about it too much.

_For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool  
By making his world a little colder_

As Rachel sings the “nah”s, Quinn’s eyelids finally become too heavy to hold up.

_Hey Jude, don’t let me down_   
_You have found her, now go and get her_   
_Remember to let her into your heart_   
_Then you can start to make it better_

Her breathing is slower now and she’s not shaking as much, and she thinks vaguely about the auditorium and the choir room and their bedrooms and how Rachel’s the only one who touches her anymore.

_So let it out and let it in_   
_Hey Jude, begin_   
_You’re waiting for someone to perform with_   
_And don’t you know that it’s just you_   
_Hey Jude, you’ll do_   
_The movement you need is on our shoulder_

Quinn doesn’t make it to the end of the song, nor does Rachel make the nightmares disappear.  But she’s not alone when she jerks awake again the first time, or the second, or the sixth, and she finds that it’s a little easier to go back to sleep tonight.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: to make sure this chapter's vibe matched the rest of the fic, I re-read the entire thing, but paused after the coming-out chapter and accidentally listened to three live versions of "Brave" by Sara Bareilles. KELSEY MAKES TERRIBLE, EMOTIONALLY TRAUMATIZING DECISIONS SOMETIMES.)

“Quinn.”

She thinks she feels pressure on her shoulder but she shrugs it off. “Go away,” she mumbles, burrowing deeper into the warmth of her bed.

Something is gently stroking her arm, and now it’s back on her shoulder. “Quinn, wake up.”

Quinn frowns and forces her eyes open, and her heart begins to pound as reality sets in: she’s tucked against Rachel’s side and her bandaged wrist is resting on Rachel’s waist, and she can feel an arm wrapped securely around her back. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammers, shifting away from Rachel and grimacing at the achy stiffness of her bruises.

“It’s fine,” Rachel assures her, sounding more concerned than anything as rolls onto her side and her eyes scan Quinn carefully. “Did I hurt you last night?  When I was…?”

“No, no,” Quinn mutters, shaking her head. “You were, um…”  She almost swallows the end of the sentence, but then she takes a deep breath and forces the words out. “It helped.  You being here.”

Rachel nods and sits up as well, mirroring Quinn’s position. “To be honest, I was really afraid you’d get mad at me for intruding. But I just… I couldn’t bear the thought of you being alone like that.”

Quinn chews her bottom lip, wondering what she could possibly say in response, but then Rachel continues. “You could probably get a few more hours of sleep, if you’re still tired.  I don’t know what time my dad was planning on bringing you to the hospital—”

Her stomach drops, because she completely forgot about that plan.

“—just didn’t want you to wake up alone, I guess.” Rachel pauses. “Are you okay?”

Quinn immediately glances up at her and tries to smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Rachel gives her a look, and she picks at a fray on the bandage. “Just nervous. Hospitals aren’t my favorite place.”

Rachel nods and her gaze drops to Quinn’s wrist. “Are you going to tell them the truth about what happened?”

Tears burn behind her eyes, because even Rachel doesn’t know the truth. “Um, I don’t know yet,” she manages.

Rachel just nods again and glances at the clock on the nightstand. “I should probably start getting ready for school,” she says, but doesn’t make any move to get off the bed. “I really didn’t make you uncomfortable last night?” she blurts after a moment, and she only meets Quinn’s eyes at the very end of the question.

“No,” Quinn says quietly, sincerely, shaking her head. “Of course not.”

Rachel visibly relaxes. “Okay,” she replies, sounding out of breath, and then she’s off the mattress and heading for the door, but after she opens it she pauses halfway over the threshold. “I should be home around four,” she says over her shoulder in Quinn’s general direction, “depending on how long glee club rehearsals go. Which might not be very long, given the stomach bug that’s going around. It might even be best to just cancel altogether. Not that that’s _ever_ the preferred decision, but team morale has to be taken into consideration, and if half of us spend practice suppressing nausea, no one’s going to want to—” She seems to realize she’s rambling and abruptly cuts herself off, and after a deep breath in and out, turns around to face Quinn. “Good luck,” she says softly, “and thank you.”

“For what?”

Rachel shrugs a little. “For trusting me, and trusting my dads.”

Quinn opens her mouth to choke out a response—an “I don’t deserve any of this,” or maybe a “You wouldn’t be treating me this way if you knew what actually happened”—but Rachel is gone before she can find the words. She checks the time and wonders if she should try to sleep a little longer, wonders if the nightmares are done for now; wonders when she rolled over last night, and why the other half of the bed already feels painfully empty.

She slips back under the covers, rolls over a bit so she’s in the middle of the mattress, and listens to the sound of the shower running down the hall.

.

There’s a freshly made omelet waiting on the counter when Quinn comes downstairs a few hours later, and even with Leroy already working his way through a bowl of cereal, she still hesitates.

“Good morning,” he greets with a smile and gestures to the food. “Don’t be a stranger. Dig in!”

She takes a seat at the island and starts to cut the omelet into tiny pieces, because her stomach is in knots and she’s not sure how much she’ll be able to force down. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

He waves it off. “Anytime, dear. How did you sleep?”

“Um,” she begins, wondering if he knows about Rachel staying with her, wondering if that’s a _thing_. “Fine.”

“Good,” he replies, setting his empty bowl in the sink. “And how’s your wrist feeling?”

Quinn shrugs a little. “Sore, but okay.”

“Good, good,” he repeats, “Hopefully Dr. Flaherty will have positive things to say today.”

She takes great care to chew and swallow her next bite of food. “When are we going?”

“Your appointment is in about an hour,” he says as he finishes washing his dishes and dries his hands with a towel.

Quinn nods slowly, then remembers Leroy isn’t looking at her, and clears her throat. “Okay.”

Leroy walks around the island and takes a seat next to her. “You seem really nervous,” he says gently, and his tone isn’t sarcastic or questioning; it’s understanding, compassionate.

“I… don’t like hospitals,” she mumbles, and she can’t really taste the omelet on her tongue anymore.

He shrugs. “That’s human enough.”

The way he says it makes it sound like “human” is supposed to be synonymous with “normal,” and Quinn shakes her head before she can stop herself, because there’s nothing normal about the reasons why he’s taking her to the hospital in the first place.

“You don’t think so?”

Quinn clenches her jaw, and the fork in her hand is shaking a little.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks, sounding genuinely worried. “Because I assure you that’s the _last_ thing—”

“I didn’t fall,” she interrupts, her voice cracking on the last word. She didn’t quite expect any of that to actually come out of her mouth, but now it’s all there and she can’t take it back, and she swallows hard while she waits for Leroy to respond.

But he doesn’t, and by the time she’s counted to ten, she can’t take the silence anymore.

“Someone—” she begins, but the rest gets stuck somewhere behind the lump in her throat, and she tries to take a deep breath. “I’m gay, and he knew, a-and that’s—that’s what happened,” Quinn chokes out in a rush, and she’s not even sure if he understands what she’s trying to say, but she thinks she’ll just worry about breathing in and out for now.

Leroy has the smallest, saddest smile on his face. “Thank you for trusting me with that information. I know those aren’t easy secrets to share.” He glances around like he’s double-checking that there’s no one else in the house. “And don’t tell Hiram, but…” His voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gay, too.”

A tiny laugh escapes her lips and she clamps them shut, pushing chunks of omelet around on her plate.

“Am I correct in assuming Rachel knows this?” he asks.

Quinn thinks about the texts, about sitting in the dark choir room, about lying in Rachel’s arms last night, and manages a “Yes.”

Leroy nods, and his face changes just a little. “What about your mother?”

“She knows,” Quinn murmurs, stabbing a piece of omelet with maybe a little more force than necessary.

He’s looking at her carefully now. “About _both_ things?”

She wets her lips and puts her fork down. “Is there an extra toothbrush I can use? We came here right after school so I didn’t get a chance to grab anything from home.”

“Of course,” he replies immediately, his face snapping back to its usual smile, “There should be several in the second drawer in the upstairs bathroom.”

Quinn thanks him and starts to lift her plate, but he stops her.

“I’ll take care of these while you get ready,” he offers.

“Thank you,” she repeats, and as she heads upstairs, she listens to him dumping the remains of her breakfast, and his unanswered question, into the garbage.

.

The drive to the hospital is mostly silent; she guesses Leroy is trying to give her some time to breathe before her appointment, but she’s still trying to absorb the fact that came out to him, _and_ that she told him about the assault… kind of. It doesn’t feel real, the idea that someone besides Rachel knows what happened and is actually doing something about it, and she has to keep reminding herself that she spent the night at their house, that her conversation with Leroy this morning happened, and that she’s about to talk to an actual doctor about her wrist.

It’s mostly young children and their parents in the waiting room, and after only a little while of sitting in a hard plastic chair that presses right against one of her bruises, Quinn finds herself having almost as much trouble sitting still as the kids around her. She keeps thinking about Santana and Puck, about Rachel holding her in the choir room and in the guest bed, about arms wrapped around her stomach and fingers intertwined with hers, until she starts to lose track of all the reasons why her heart is beating so fast.

“Quinn Fabray?” a nurse calls out.

It takes an encouraging nod from Leroy for her to actually get out of her chair and follow the nurse through the double doors and down the hall, around a few corners, and then finally into an empty exam room.

“My name is Heidi,” the woman says, “Take a seat and I’ll measure your vitals, and then we’ll get Dr. Flaherty in here.”

The exam bed is just high enough that Quinn needs to lift herself up, and she makes sure Heidi’s attention is on her clipboard before carefully maneuvering her legs up onto the paper covering. Then it occurs to her that she’s trying to hide her wrist pain when it’s the whole reason why she’s here, and she rolls her eyes at herself.

Heidi takes Quinn’s temperature, then grabs a blood pressure cuff from a rack on the wall and straps the cuff around Quinn’s elbow; she starts to pump, and as the pressure increases, all Quinn can think about is the way his hand clamped around her wrist.

“Your blood pressure seems a bit high. Is there anything making you uncomfortable, or anxious?”

Quinn hesitates but then shakes her head. “No, I’m—” She swallows. “I’m fine.”

Heidi nods and says “Okay,” then removes the cuff and grabs a new instrument off the rack. “Could you look straight ahead for me, hon?” she asks, holding the instrument in front of Quinn’s eye; but Quinn is watching the seconds tick by on clock above the door, so Heidi uses a few gentle fingertips to rotate her head a little. She presses right against the bruise and Quinn tries not to flinch away from the contact, but Heidi frowns. “Are you feeling some tenderness there?”

“Um…” Quinn swallows thickly again, and she can feel her hands trembling as her heart nearly pounds out of her chest. “A little bit, yeah. But it’s—we played dodgeball in gym class the other day,” she finishes quickly, grimacing even as the words come out.

“Must have been an intense game,” Heidi replies, writing something down on the clipboard, and Quinn thinks she might throw up. “I’ll go let Dr. Flaherty know you’re ready for her. If you could change into this,” she continues, taking a hospital gown out of one of the drawers and handing it to Quinn. “It should just be a few minutes.”

Heidi closes the door behind her, leaving Quinn alone with her new wardrobe and so many deafening thoughts about how much truth to tell that she can barely hear the clock ticking anymore. She takes a deep breath and gets to her feet so she can shed her clothes, then carefully wraps herself in the gown and returns to her seat on the exam bed.

(She can’t help but notice how much sitting alone in a silent room contrasts with the last time she was in a hospital.)

There’s a light knock on the door and it opens a few inches. “Are you all set, Quinn?”

“Yeah,” she manages, and a woman with wavy red hair enters the room.

“I’m Dr. Flaherty,” she greets with a kind smile and shakes Quinn’s hand, then glances at the clipboard she’s holding. “So, Leroy told me you’re having some problems with your wrist?”

Quinn nods, then decides it’s too quiet in this room and adds a soft “Yes.”

She puts the clipboard on the counter, and her gaze lingers on some of the notes as she pulls on a pair of latex gloves. “Heidi also mentioned to me that you might have some bruising on your cheek. Something about a rough game of dodgeball?” she asks, and her tone is casual enough, but Quinn can sense that she doesn’t quite buy it.

Quinn doesn’t respond right away, because her eyes are burning and she doesn’t trust her voice at the moment… but also because she’s thinking. Thinking about how stupid her excuses sound, and how it was surprisingly easy to tell Leroy the truth—

“Quinn?”

She glances up and Dr. Flaherty’s bright blue eyes are on hers. She takes a deep breath, and with a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the exam table, she pushes the words out. “It wasn’t gym class.”

Dr. Flaherty’s posture changes; it’s softer now. “Does it have anything to do with your wrist?”

“Yes,” Quinn says quietly, and looks down at her torso for just a second.

“Are there bruises anywhere else?”

She’s probably about to tear holes through the exam table paper. “Yes.”

Dr. Flaherty takes glasses out of her coat pocket and slips them onto her nose. “Could you show me where?”

Quinn sniffs and nods her head a little, but it takes her a moment to pry her hands away from the table. She reaches behind her and pulls aside one edge of her gown, exposing what she’s pretty sure are the biggest, darkest marks, though she doesn’t dare look to see for herself.

“Those are some serious bruises,” Dr. Flaherty says, rolling her stool a few inches closer so she can gently prod at a few of them, before glancing up at Quinn. “Would you feel comfortable talking to me about how you got these? I know it can be scary, but the more honest you are, the easier it is for me to give you the best treatment for your injuries.

Quinn nods and tries to blink back the tears forming in her eyes. “Um…” Her voice shakes and she takes a deep breath, and begins stacking the words on her tongue. “Someone attacked me,” she begins, then pauses and wets her lips, and Dr. Flaherty waits for her to continue. “He grabbed my wrist, and hit me,” she continues quietly, gesturing vaguely to her cheek, “and everything else was with his shoes.”

“Now, when you say ‘he,’ you mean…?”

She shrugs a little. “Guy at a party. I didn’t know him.”

Dr. Flaherty nods some more, looking intently at Quinn. “I have a feeling you didn’t go to the police.”

She swallows hard. “No.”

“Is that an option you’ve considered?” she asks slowly, carefully, and Quinn immediately shakes her head.

“I-I mean, I know it’s an option,” Quinn stammers, “but I don’t—um, I can’t—there’s just—”

“Hey, breathe,” Dr. Flaherty interrupts, and her tone is gentle. “I’m not going to force you to take any steps you’re not comfortable with; this is _your_ body and _your_ call.”

Quinn takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly, managing a few small nods.

Dr. Flaherty lifts the stethoscope from around her neck and puts it in her ears. “I’m going to listen to your lungs and your heart, to make sure everything sounds the way it should, and then we’ll take a closer look at your bruises, and then your wrist.” She lifts the diaphragm and begins to move it closer to Quinn’s torso. “If you start to get uncomfortable, or you feel too much anxiety, just let me know and we can take a minute. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Quinn echoes.

(She’s still shaking a little, but maybe she’s just cold.)

.

Quinn returns to the waiting room with icing instructions and a list of recommended wrist brace brands, and Leroy immediately gets to his feet.

“It’s good to see you, Erin,” he greets as they shake hands and exchange friendly smiles. “What’s the verdict?”

“She has a basic sprain,” Dr. Flaherty replies. “A bit more severe than a grade one but not quite as bad as a grade two. A few weeks of ice and compression and her wrist should be fine.”

He gives Quinn’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Thank you so much for seeing her.”

“Of course, Leroy. Give Hiram and Rachel my best.” Now she extends her hand to Quinn. “It was nice to meet you, Quinn.”

“You too,” she says, accepting the handshake, and she and Leroy head out to the parking lot.

“So,” Leroy begins as he holds out his keys and hits the unlock button, “official diagnosis aside—how did it go?”

Quinn climbs into the passenger seat and doesn’t respond until she’s buckled her seatbelt and the car is on. “It was fine,” she says, rereading the slip of paper with Dr. Flaherty’s notes, “She was really nice.” Quinn waits a beat. “I told her.”

“Told her…?”

“Just what happened. How I got hurt.”

Leroy nods. “Was it difficult?”

Quinn shrugs. “Yeah. I guess.” There are more words in her mouth and at first she clenches her jaw, but then she decides to let them out. “I didn’t come out to her,” she mumbles, and it’s the first time she’s used those two words aloud, and she reminds herself to keep breathing in and out, in and out.

“That’s okay,” Leroy says gently, glancing at her as they wait at a red light. “You should never feel obligated to come out to anyone, because you aren’t—especially someone you just met, like Dr. Flaherty.”

She swallows and nods and thinks about what it was like to tell her mom, to tell the Mack, to tell Rachel, to tell Leroy.

“Though,” he continues, “for the record, she wouldn’t have treated you any differently.” He turns left and drives past another intersection before speaking again. “She was my RA when I was a freshman; I came out to her a few weeks into my first semester, and she’s been an invaluable source of support ever since.”

Suddenly they’re pulling into the parking lot of a drug store. “Did she talk to you about wrist braces? Which brand to get?”

Quinn’s heart sinks as she realizes her wallet is at their house. “Um—yeah, she gave me a list. But I don’t have any money on me.”

“Oh no, honey, I’ll take care of it.”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. You don’t have to—”

“Quinn,” he says gently, looking her square in the eye, “I’ll take care of it.” He waits for her to absorb his words, and he smiles when she finally nods. “Let’s take a look at that list.”

As she hands it to him, Judy’s voice floats through her head.

_There’s Tylenol in the bathroom._

“Are you okay?” Leroy asks, glancing back at her as he opens the driver’s side door.

She clears her throat. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”

They both climb out of the car and she follows Leroy through the automatic doors. “Maybe you can take a nap after lunch, before Rachel gets home,” he suggests.

Quinn nods, and wonders why she’s thinking again about Rachel’s body heat against her back and the hand holding tightly onto her own and the words sung softly in her ear.

_I couldn’t bear the thought of you being alone like that._

Something in her stomach twists, but she’s probably just hungry.

.

She’s been dozing on the Berrys’ living room couch for an hour or so when she hears Rachel’s voice in the kitchen, and immediately she’s wide awake.

“It was in everyone’s best interests,” Rachel is explaining as Quinn gathers her brand new wrist brace and melted ice pack and gets up from the couch. “There was no use trying to rehearse with a third of the glee club out sick.”

Quinn walks through the doorway to find Rachel talking into her phone. “Can’t be any worse than when we all had hangovers,” she says with a small smile, and Rachel beams at her like she’s just said something earth-shatteringly inspirational.

“We can discuss how to make up the time tomorrow, okay?” She hangs up the phone and sets it on the counter, massaging her temples and letting out a long sigh. “It’s a bit terrifying when Kurt gets more stressed out than me about a glee club practice. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“I was only half-asleep,” Quinn replies with a shrug, returning her ice pack to the freezer and carefully strapping the brace around her wrist.

Rachel is watching her movements. “How did everything go today?”

Quinn wets her lips and slowly sinks into one of the chairs in front of the island, and Rachel follows suit. “It’s sprained,” she begins, “but I just have to ice it and wear this, and it should be fine.”

“That’s good,” Rachel says, nodding.

She takes a deep breath. “I told her what happened.”

Surprise flashes across Rachel’s face. “Quinn, that’s—”

“And I told your dad,” she interrupts quietly, “and I came out to him.”

Rachel’s eyes actually look a bit glassy. “I’m _so_ _proud_ of you,” she gushes, leaning out of her chair and wrapping Quinn in a tight hug that all but takes her breath away, but then Rachel pulls back before she has a chance to reciprocate. “Wait, I’m sorry—can I hug you?”

The question is absurdly sincere and Quinn shakes her head as she tries to stifle a grin. “You are so weird,” she mutters and pulls Rachel close again, letting herself take in the scent of Rachel’s shampoo as a thumb brushes back and forth against her shoulder blade.

“You are so brave,” Rachel whispers back.

Quinn tries to blink back the moisture suddenly lurking behind her eyes, and just as she’s starting to wonder how long hugs usually last, Rachel leans away again; but then her fingers catch Quinn’s.

“I missed you,” she says, her voice small.

Quinn swallows. “I missed you, too.”

She’s not sure if they’re talking about today or the weekend or both, but then Rachel squeezes her hand briefly and lets it go, and she decides it doesn’t matter.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Leroy asks as he enters the kitchen and begins sifting through the pile of mail on the table.

Quinn hesitates; she wants to, she _really_ does, but she’s been here for almost twenty-four hours, and they’ve paid for a doctor’s appointment and bought her the nicest wrist brace on the shelf, and she’d feel terrible if she accepted any more generosity tonight.

“Thank you so much for the offer—for _everything—_ but I should probably get home.”

Leroy smiles. “Well, it was lovely having you, and I sincerely hope we see you again soon.”

She nods and tries to ignore the lump in her throat. “See you tomorrow, Rachel,” she says and heads for the foyer, but Rachel follows.

“I’ll walk you out,” she blurts and hurries to catch up with Quinn.

They meet at the door, and Rachel looks conflicted about something.

“You’re not about to ask permission for another hug, are you? Because we literally just—”

“Have lunch with me tomorrow?” Rachel asks, sounding almost as shy as she did a few weeks ago.

Quinn almost laughs, but then she thinks about her silence all weekend, and how she avoided Rachel for most of yesterday, and the question suddenly doesn’t seem quite as ridiculous. “Of course,” she says with a nod.

Rachel beams. “I’ll see you at school.”

.

Quinn slips through the front door and immediately heads up the stairs, hoping that the TV volume will be loud enough to cover her footsteps. She turns on her bedroom light and closes the door behind her, taking her time as she sets her bag on the floor and opens up her closet to find a change of clothes; she settles on a gray Cheerios t-shirt and red sweatpants and lays them carefully on her bed.

Now she stands directly in front of her mirror, takes a deep breath, and takes off her shirt.

The bruises are dark, and unmistakably shoe-shaped, and they wrap around her torso in a perfect diagram of exactly what he did to her that night. She ghosts a fingertip along the one that curves along the ribs on her right side, the biggest of them all, and then gently presses against it—

“Where have you been?”

Quinn whips around at the sound of her mom’s voice, sharp and demanding, and yanks the clean shirt over her head. “Jesus, can you _knock_?”

Judy is frozen in the doorway, her eyes glued to Quinn as if she can see the marks through her shirt, until she finally clears her throat. “I asked you a question,” she says, and her tone sounds strained now.

“I spent the night at a friend’s house.”

Her mom barely lets her finish the sentence. “I got a call from Principal Figgins this morning. He told me that Leroy Berry called you out sick from school.”

“If you already know where I was, then why did you ask?”

Judy’s arms are folded tightly over her chest. “I told you not to speak to her anymore. What were you doing with her?”

Something about the way she says the last bit makes sparks ignite in Quinn’s stomach. “What I was _doing_? Rachel noticed I was hurt and wanted her dads to make sure I’m okay. Sorry, was that not appropriate for a school night?”

Her posture is rigid. “You missed your classes today.”

“Because Leroy took me to see a doctor so I could get my _sprained wrist_ looked at,” Quinn spits out, holding up her arm, but Judy’s eyes don’t shift away from Quinn’s. “Turns out, that can’t be fixed with a few painkillers.”

The words make Judy clench her jaw, and her lips are pressed into a taut line. “Have you considered,” she begins, her voice low and determinedly even, “that it might not have happened if you…?” She doesn’t finish the question.

“If I what, mom?” Quinn breathes, moisture burning behind her eyes.

Judy stays absolutely still for a moment before shaking her head and turning to leave.

“If I _what_?” she shouts after her, but Judy neither comes back nor gives her a response, and Quinn slams the door closed. The noise is jarring, because it’s something she hasn’t heard in two days, and suddenly it hits her how unfamiliar her own home feels to her now; she was only at the Berrys’ for twenty-four hours, but the happy conversations, the openness, the _warmth_ —it’s everything this house is missing, and the differences are almost painfully obvious.

She eases herself backwards onto her bed and waits for her pulse to steady a little, and after a long moment she takes her phone out of her pocket and picks the second contact on her list.

The other line only rings twice before she gets an answer. “Hey,” Rachel says, and Quinn can hear the smile in her voice.

“Hi.  Um—” All the words disappear on her and she pinches the bridge of her nose.  “I-I’m sorry to bother you… I know I only left, like, twenty minutes ago—”

“No, Quinn, it’s fine,” Rachel assures her, “You can call me anytime; it’s never a bother.  Is everything okay?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  “She said it was my fault,” Quinn manages, then swallows. “I told her about my wrist, and she said it might not have happened if—if I weren’t—” Her throat tightens and she covers her eyes with her palm, as if that will stop the tears from falling.

“Quinn…” Rachel begins, and then her voice gets very quiet.  “What he did to you… it wasn’t because of anything you did wrong.  Don’t let anyone convince you that you deserved it.”

Something in her chest burns as she thinks about kissing him, about kissing that girl, about his voice in her ear calling her a slut, a freak. “But,” she croaks, “what if I did?”

“You can’t do this to yourself. I—Quinn, you deserve so much more than…” Rachel can’t seem to figure out what she wants to say. “I wish she didn’t make you feel like this.”

Quinn blinks and a tear rolls down her temple; she rolls over and curls up into a ball, willing her bruises to stop aching.  “I wish I were still at your house,” she whispers.

Rachel makes a small noise that sounds a little too emotional to be a laugh.  “Me too.”

Quinn’s heart is pounding and she sniffs, wondering if she should hang up now, but then she surprises herself with more words. “So, what did I miss in English today?” she asks, and her voice is thick but steady.

Rachel launches into a summary of class eventually that spirals into a detailed play-by-play of the entire school day; the conversation lasts over an hour, and only ends because Rachel gets called down for dinner, but by the time they hang up, Quinn’s eyes are dry.


End file.
